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Mingi is certain there are bees in his stomach.

They're way too aggressive for butterflies, or whatever other insects normal people get when they're nervous. He has bees, and he is almost sure if he opens his mouth at the wrong time, they'll fly out in a huge swarm and sting him to death. 

He is pretty sure that being dead wouldn't even solve his problems. Mr. Lee would likely resurrect him just to yell and maybe hit him some more for daring to die right before such an important meeting. 

So he stands there, beside the back entrance of a shady looking bar, trying not to move too much. Every time he does, Mr. Lee and Mr. Park will give him evil looks, like he's disappointing them by simply existing. 

At least Hongjoong is here, Mingi reminds himself. The smaller man is standing beside him, seemingly carved out of stone compared to the way Mingi can't hold still. He looks perfectly relaxed and natural, the weight of the gun Mingi knows is under his jacket unnoticeable. 

In direct contrast, Mingi's own gun is very uncomfortable and he knows he's not wearing it right. There hadn't been much time; the weapon had been shoved in his hands along with the terse order to get out the door. 

Mingi knows better than to ask questions at this point; those only lead to more beatings. So he followed, trailing after the older gang members and Hongjoong until they arrived here. 

He wishes Jongho was here. He always knows what's going on, and is good at telling Mingi just enough to keep him from freaking out. Mingi is pretty sure Hongjoong would like to tell him what's going on, but Mr. Park and Mr. Lee would never let him do that. 

“Here we go,” Hongjoong mutters under his breath as the door Mr. Lee knocked on several minutes ago slides open. 

Mingi does his best to pay attention and look intimidating as Mr. Lee exchanges a few words with whoever is holding the door open. After a moment, the door opens further and Mr. Lee steps into the bar. 

Mr. Park follows right behind him, and Mingi hesitates for a second before moving after a hiss from Hongjoong. His glasses keep slipping down his nose, and he takes the chance to adjust them. 

He steps into the back hallway of the bar, the space cramped and rather dirty. Mr. Park is almost halfway down the hall already, and Mingi breaks into a slight jog to make up the distance. He narrowly manages to avoid running into Mr. Park once he reaches the end of the hallway, the older man abruptly stopping. 

They stand like that for a long moment, and Mingi can distantly hear Mr. Lee asking to be shown to the bar's back room. Whoever opened the door eventually agrees, leading them through even more hallway. 

Mingi can barely keep track of where they are in the building, confused by all the dim, cramped hallways that look identical. He could swear they pass the same crates of onions stacked against the wall at least six times before they finally reach the back room. 

It's just as small as the hallways, and Mingi ends up standing against the back wall with Hongjoong while Mr. Park and Mr. Lee sit. The room is hot after the coolness of the street, and Mingi's stiff dress-shirt is beginning to itch. 

He desperately wants to reach up and adjust the collar, maybe even loosen the tie. He doesn't dare to; Mr. Park had made it very clear that there are certain standards of dress in the gang, and he is expected to follow them exactly. 

That just makes everything Hongjoong gets away with more impressive. Every time Mingi looks over at him, he notices some new detail about his outfit, which seems pretty standard until you actually look closely. His jacket tonight looks like it's been cut into pieces and stitched back together with raised lines of white thread, the look way too fancy for the back room of some shitty bar. It's a miracle Mr. Park didn't say anything to him about fitting the dress code. 

He's older, Mingi reminds himself. And useful, liked, and actually good at this. Mingi is none of those things. 

So he stands there, trying not to get yelled at as his suit continues to itch and the gun shoved into his belt grows more uncomfortable. His glasses keep slipping down too; they're not even the right prescription but Mingi broke the last pair and was only able to get his hands on these. They're better than nothing, but not by much. 

The sound of the door opening startles him, enough that he actually jumps. Hongjoong gives him a look that could be concerned, expression flickering for a second. Mr. Park and Mr. Lee thankfully don't notice, too busy standing up and exchanging handshakes and shallow bows with the men coming in the room. 

Mingi and Hongjoong both bow to a suitably respectful degree when Mr. Lee introduces them vaguely as subordinates. 

The men are gang members as well, belonging to a gang that works closely with the one Mingi is now part of. They absolutely know what Hongjoong and Mingi are here for, and have brought similar people for the exact same purpose. 

“Please, sit,” Mr. Lee says jovially, gesturing to the opposite side of the table. 

Everyone sits, subtly adjusting jackets to make various weapons easier to access. The air in the room would seem relaxed and friendly to anyone else, but Mingi can almost taste the tension running through the air as they pass around cigarettes and a lighter. 

Mr. Lee takes the lead in the conversation. Based on a few things Mingi has overheard, he is in charge of maintaining the relationship with this gang, and has the best connections with them. He and the main representative of the other group almost seem to be friends, asking casually about each other's wives and children. 

All the fake smiles and laughter just makes Mingi more nervous, and it almost feels like the walls of the room are closing even tighter around him. 

In an effort to distract himself, he studies the other gang members. There are only four, a number carefully negotiated before this meeting. The two senior members are sitting at the table, both middle aged or older. They smoke casually, the light catching on the heavy rings they wear every time they move their hands. The two younger members are similarly standing against the opposite wall, expressions placid and even bored. They seem very typical gang members, complete with undercuts and glimpses of tattoos underneath their collars and sleeves. 

The conversation has been proceeding at a leisurely pace up until this point, mostly light small talk. Mingi isn't sure if it’s to lower everyone's guard, or if Mr. Lee legitimately wants to know if the gang member’s daughter got into the college they wanted. 

Whatever the purpose, it has clearly been met. Mr. Lee shifts forward in his seat, taking a drag from his cigarette before letting it out with a deep sigh. 

“Have things been rough in your territory?” he asks conversationally. “Things have been hard here; much more difficult than they should be.” 

“What do you mean,” one of the other men laughs. “Things have been good. The cops have gotten fat and slow. Business has never been better.” 

“Ahhh, I wish we could say the same,” Mr. Lee sighs. “We've been having trouble with people close to us, people we trust. It's a terrible thing when that happens.” 

Mingi can feel the energy in the room shift ever so slightly as the pieces fall into place. 

“I see,” the other gang member says. “It truly is terrible.” 

“Especially when it is such a close friend,” Mr. Lee continues. “We thought we could trust you. I thought I could trust you. What changed, my friend?” 

The two gang members shift slightly, exchanging a glance. Picking up on the change, the other two members move a tiny bit as well. Hands begin to drift closer to waistbands and inner pockets of jackets, making Mingi's pulse immediately skyrocket. 

“Business is business,” one of them finally says. “Your offer was good, but things changed.” 

“So things can just change like that?” 

This is the first time Mr. Park has really spoken during the conversation, and his voice is deceptively even. Mingi knows that tone; it's the one he will ask him questions in before slapping him across the face for a wrong answer or disrespectful look. 

“Listen, you know how it is,” one of the men tries. “You're in this business too.” 

“But we stand by our friends,” Mr. Lee says calmly. He leans back in his seat, stubbing his cigarette out on the table. “You betrayed us.” 

“Betrayal is a harsh word,” the other gang member says. “We did what we had to do.” 

Mr. Lee chuckles at that, no real amusement in the noise. 

“As do we,” he says, still laughing. “We all do what we have to do. It's just a shame about your daughter.” 

The other man is on his feet in seconds, hands flying for the gun holstered under his arm. Mr. Park and Mr. Lee are quick to pull their own guns out as well, and Hongjoong's has already appeared in his hands like magic. 

Mingi hurriedly draws his own weapon, pulse suddenly deafening in his own ears. If the room felt small before, it has only narrowed down further now. The two men who were previously leaning against the far wall now have their guns raised and are stepping closer.

The room keeps getting narrower and Mingi can feel time dragging out. It's like a slow motion shot in an action movie, except he isn't able to execute flawless and incredibly cool moves that take his enemies out immediately. Instead it's like he's trapped in amber, moving glacially as he watches one of the other gang members point their gun directly at him. 

He's moving as well, every second feeling like years. He barely feels in control of his own arms, watching like they belong to someone else. 

The kickback of the gun feels real, the pistol jumping in his hands. The room is tight, so the shot is almost deafening, echoing through Mingi's head. 

He doesn't know where he was aiming, but the shot hits the other man in the right arm. He drops his gun with a cry of pain, face twisting in a mixture of agony and anger. 

If time had been dragging by, it all speeds up at once for Mingi. The noise comes rushing back in, and he jumps as a gunshot goes off almost in his ear. Someone is yelling, possibly multiple people, and the man he just shot is suddenly right in front of him. 

Hands wrap around his neck, immediately making it hard to breathe. Mingi drops his gun on sheer instinct, reaching up to try and pry the hands away even as he is slammed against the back wall. 

His head cracks against the worn brick and the hands tighten around his neck as he claws at their wrists. The man's face is right up in his, and Mingi would recoil at the feeling of hot breath against his cheek if he could move or think.

He's screaming at himself to do something, anything , but he can't get his limbs to respond. He can only weakly try to dislodge the other man's fingers as black spots begin to appear in his vision. 

The first shot hits the other man in the cheek, and Mingi watches in horror as the skin around the entry point tugs in, dragged by the bullet. Blood almost immediately fountains, bubbling out of the now-gaping hole in the man's face. 

Their faces are close enough together that the blood splatters on Mingi's face as well, hot where it lands on his skin. 

The second shot smashes through the man's temple, shattering bone like it’s glass. 

The blood before was barely anything compared to the current amounts. Mingi is bathed in the stuff, red covering his hands, staining his dress shirt, and painting his vision. 

Mingi can't think, can't breathe. The blood is burning on his face and hands and neck, hot enough that he's sure it's smoking. The now-lifeless body is slumped against him, heavy and pinning Mingi to the wall. 

He can't see, his vision almost entirely filled with red. If he could think he would realize his glasses are covered in blood. But he can't, and is trapped underneath the still-dripping body as his breathing rapidly speeds up. 

He's trying to breathe but can't get enough air, gasping roughly. He can taste the blood on his tongue, the copper cloying and overpowering. 

The shots have stopped; there weren't actually very many in the first place. Now it's just yelling, the individual voices and words lost in the roaring that's filling Mingi's ears.

He flinches when the weight against him suddenly shifts, even as he immediately begins to take actual breaths again. Someone is standing right in front of him, but he can't tell who it is. They're red, everything is red, and he's drowning in the smell and taste of blood. 

“-need to get out of here,” someone is saying, the words passingly meaninglessly through his head. 

“Minho is bringing the car around,” a different voice responds. “It’ll be a few minutes.” 

“What's wrong with him?” 

Mingi is still gasping for air, just standing there. He can’t see anything, the blood still burning against his skin. 

“Hey,” one of the voices says roughly, sounding much closer than before. “Cat got your tongue, boy?” 

The slap knocks his head to the side, and Mingi staggers. The blow is sudden and disorienting, sending his head spinning. 

“The fucker is crying,” the distant voice points out. “So much for being useful.” 

“Snap out of it,” the closer voice orders, closely followed by another slap. 

Mingi had lifted his head at the first order, but he just keeps it down after the next slap. He still can't think, but some part of him remembers to curl up on himself, protecting his stomach. 

“Thought you said he was good, Kim,” one of the voices says. “Kid can't even handle a little blood.” 

“It's his first time,” a new voice points out. “It's rough for everyone.” 

“Whatever,” the voice snorts. “He's your problem.” 

Every sound rings in Ming's ears, and he winces at the noise of footsteps. Hands are on his shoulders, and don't leave when he tries to push them away. 

“C'mon,” someone is saying gently. “Just stand up, Mingi-ya. You can do it.” 

He's too disoriented to protest, and is tugged upright. He's shaking now, the tremors making it hard to stand on his own. 

Whoever got him standing doesn't leave, pressing against Mingi's side and dragging his arm over their shoulders. They're shorter than him, but still urge him to lean against them with a soft voice. 

Hongjoong, Mingi realizes distantly. It’s Hongjoong. 

That knowledge makes it a bit easier to breathe. Mingi knows Hongjoong won't hit him, and he lets the older man take some of his weight. 

“That's it,” Hongjoong tells him encouragingly. “Let's get out of here, ok?” 

Mingi tries to nod, but he doesn't know if it works or not. He still can't see, the blood thoroughly coating his glasses. Hongjoong seems to realize this after a second, and Mingi jumps at the sensation of cold fingertips against his skin. 

“Shh,” Hongjoong whispers. “Just let me take these off.” 

He delicately removes Mingi's glasses, folding them with one hand and shoving them in his breast pocket. 

The light in the back room is dim, but Mingi still blinks at it. He scans his surroundings with wide eyes, not really comprehending what he's seeing. 

There are four bodies on the floor, laying in growing puddles of blood. Mingi gulps at a sudden wave of nausea as he takes in the sight, his stomach churning. 

“Hey, don't look at that,” Hongjoong says quickly. “Look straight ahead, Mingi. We're getting out of here.” 

Mingi tries to nod again, obediently raising his eyes to focus on the doorway Hongjoong is guiding them towards. 

The walk through the hallways feels like a dream. Mingi can’t get his body to fully respond, meaning Hongjoong has to essentially drag him through the building. 

Mingi doesn't even realize they're almost out until Hongjoong is shoving open the door. The fresh air hits him full on, and Mingi can't stop himself from taking a deep breath. 

It's the best breath he's ever taken, even if the air smells like cigarette smoke and other back alley smells. 

The door closes behind them and Hongjoong continues to drag him forward, only letting go when they reach the opposite wall. 

Mingi sinks into a crouch the second he's not begin held up anymore, hugging his own knees tightly. Hongjoong kneels beside him a moment later, not caring about his dress pants at all. 

“You're covered in the shit,” he murmurs. “I think I have something…” 

He trails off, and Mingi watches distantly as he digs in his jacket pockets. He finally pulls out a small handful of napkins, slightly tattered and wrinkled. 

Hongjoong proceeds to spit on one of the napkins and begin cleaning the blood off Mingi's face. The gesture is such a familiar one, repeated countless times by Mingi's mom, and he finds himself giggling at seeing it in such a setting. 

“What?” Hongjoong asks, pausing his movements. 

“My- my mom,” Mingi gasps out between tears and laughter. “She does that when I get stuff on my face.”

Hongjoong gives him a long look at that, concern very easy to read in his expression. Mingi doesn't register it; he's beginning to feel floaty and strange, like he's not even there at all. 

The floaty feeling ends abruptly when he realizes he'll have to go home tonight. He'll have to face his mom, who will undoubtedly be able to tell everything that happened with one look. 

He abruptly stops laughing, his tears speeding up as his breathing becomes more panicked. Picking up on this change, Hongjoong lowers the napkin, putting a hand on Mingi's shoulder instead. 

“Hey,” he says firmly. “What is it? Talk to me.”

Mingi knows an order when he hears one, and he releases his death grip on his knees to wipe his nose briefly. 

“My mom,” he finally says once he can breathe semi-normally. “My mom is going to know from one look, Hongjoong. Do you see how much b- bl- stuff there is? She's going to know, it'd be impossible for her not to-”

Hongjoong holds up a hand quickly enough that Mingi thinks he's going to be hit, instinctively flinching. Hongjoong's expression darkens at Mingi's reaction, and he deliberately moves his hand slower as he rests it on Mingi's knee. 

“It's going to be ok,” he says, not breaking eye contact. “I've got you, alright? Let hyung take care of everything.”

Mingi just stares at him for a second. It’s been a long time since he was told that; he hasn’t seen his older brother in years. It feels like coming home in a strange way, and Mingi suddenly realizes just how tired he is. 

“Okay,” he whispers. “I trust you.” 

Hongjoong grins at that, a gentler smile than the razor sharp one he gives to Mr. Park every time he makes a joke that really isn’t funny. He continues to wipe off Mingi’s face and neck, using every one of the napkins by the end. 

Mingi lets himself zone out, only barely trying to keep his head steady. Hongjoong’s hands aren’t necessarily gentle, but the repetitive roughness is nice in its own way. Mingi distantly thinks this must be what it feels like to be a kitten getting licked clean.

“Alright,” Hongjoong says once he’s used all the napkins. “Round one is done. Can you get up for me?” 

Mingi manages to nod fuzzily, and Hongjoong is quick to grab his arm and pull it over his shoulders again. They stand slowly, and Hongjoong is very careful to keep from moving too fast. Mingi appreciates that; his head feels strange and weird and he isn’t sure how good his balance will be on his own. 

Once they’re standing, Hongjoong begins to lead him out of the alley. He will occasionally murmur something encouraging, but mostly they walk in silence. The asphalt is cracked and uneven under Mingi’s shoes, and he keeps his head down to stare at it as they go. 

They walk for a long time. Mingi has no clue how long, but eventually they slow and Hongjoong is gently pushing him down onto a bench. 

“Stay right here,” he says firmly. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” 

Mingi can only nod, watching as Hongjoong crosses the street at a jog. He’s soon too far away to see clearly, reminding Mingi that his glasses are still in the other man’s coat. He should probably get those back; his mom will be disappointed if he loses them. 

He is vaguely thinking about the pair of glasses he had a couple of months ago when Hongjoong comes back, several plastic shopping bags in his hands. He sets them beside Mingi on the bench, rummaging through them quickly. 

“Here we go,” he mutters to himself, pulling out a package of wet wipes. 

He quickly tears it open, pulling one out right away. He steps closer to Mingi, expression apologetic. 

“This is going to be cold,” he warns before beginning to wipe at Mingi’s face again. 

He’s right; it is very cold. But Mingi is good at following orders, and he holds still as well as he can. Hongjoong is quick about it, but there is soon a pile of discarded wipes on the bench. 

“That’s it,” Hongjoong finally says, taking a slight step back. He scans Mingi’s face quickly, looking for any blood that he missed. 

When he doesn’t find any, he returns to the plastic bags. Mingi is handed a cheap sweatshirt with the tags still on. 

“Put that on,” Hongjoong tells him. “Take off your shirt and everything; it’s all stained.” 

Mingi obeys, unbuttoning his shirt with numb fingers. It’s not quite winter yet, but the air is definitely cold as he slips off his jacket, and then the shirt. The sweatshirt is at least warm when he pulls it on, even if the fabric is scratchy against his skin. 

Hongjoong has been wiping down his own face, hands, and neck while Mingi is changing. The second Mingi takes off his jacket and shirt, Hongjoong stuffs them in one of the plastic bags, along with all the wet wipes that are now stained pink. 

“Last step,” Hongjoong tells him, reaching into the only remaining bag. 

Mingi is still largely out of it, but he’s present enough to be very confused when Hongjoong pulls out several cans of beer. 

“We’re lucky I’m twenty-one now,” Hongjoong tells him, cracking one of the cans open. “I didn’t bring any of my fake IDs with me.” 

If Mingi was fully there mentally, he wouldn’t be very surprised by the fact that Hongjoong has multiple fake IDs. 

Once the bottle is open, Hongjoong pours some of the beer onto his palm, holding it away from his body so he doesn’t get his clothes soaked. 

Mingi is about to ask what he’s going to do with a handful of beer when Hongjoong turns towards him and dumps the small amount of liquid on Mingi’s sweatshirt collar. 

He quickly repeats the motion a couple of times before handing Mingi the rest of the can. It’s half-empty by now, the other half drying on Mingi’s collar. 

“Drink as much of that as you can,” Hongjoong instructs, reaching for another can. 

Mingi blinks at him a few times as Hongjoong does the same to his own clothes, practically soaking himself in the beer in between sips. 

“Why?” he finally manages to ask, looking down at the can in his hands. 

“We’re giving your mom something else to focus on,” Hongjoong tells him. “You come in super late, acting weird and smelling like a bar? She’ll know exactly what happened.” 

The pieces belatedly connect for Mingi, and he nods jerkily. 

The beer tastes horrible going down, incredibly bitter. Hongjoong gives him a sympathetic smile when he comes up from his first sip grimacing. 

“Sorry it’s not very good,” he says. “They didn’t have a great selection.” 

Mingi is pretty sure all beer would taste equally awful at this point, but he has no clue what would go down best after a disastrous shootout. He’ll have to ask Hongjoong when just the thought of what happened back at the bar doesn’t make him want to cry. 

He manages to drink the can down a bit more while Hongjoong finishes up, leaving briefly to throw away all their trash. 

“Okay,” he says once he returns. “Ready to go?” 

In response, Mingi just holds out the can. Hongjoong takes it and throws it away too, then helps Mingi stand up. 

It takes all of his attention to focus on staying upright as Hongjoong finds them a taxi, negotiating with the driver briefly before helping Mingi into the backseat. 

It’s a bench seat, but Mingi sits as close as he can to Hongjoong, practically slumped against the smaller man. Hongjoong doesn’t protest, just keeping an eye on where they are. 

The taxi drops them off at the end of Mingi’s street, leaving them to walk down to the right apartment complex. Mingi is having an even harder time staying upright, and ends up leaning more and more on Hongjoong as they go. 

“For such a lightweight, you sure are heavy,” the older man mutters with no annoyance, practically dragging Mingi down the street at this point. 

“‘M notta lightweight,” Mingi tells him reproachfully. 

He’s feeling… different now. He doesn't know exactly how, but he does know his head feels strange and it’s incredibly difficult to walk in a straight line. 

“Sure, Mingi-ya,” Hongjoong replies, patting his hand. “Let’s just hope you’re not a talkative drunk.” 

Mingi can’t come up with anything to say to that, and so he sticks to staying upright. The front door of the apartment complex is unlocked as always, and Hongjoong guides Mingi through the lobby to the elevators. 

“They’re broken,” Mingi informs him after Hongjoong hits the button a couple of times. “Always broken.” 

“Of course,” Hongjoong sighs. “Where are the stairs?” 

Mingi points him in the right direction, and they begin to climb. 

The stairwell is echoey and cold, making Mingi wish he was anywhere else. He is tempted to sink down and sit on the steps until he feels better, but he knows Hongjoong won’t let him do that. 

They reach the fifth floor eventually, and head off down the hallway to the correct apartment door. 

“Spare key is under the mat,” Mingi supplies when they arrive, leaning against the wall to watch Hongjoong bend down to grab it. 

“Will your mom be up?” Hongjoong asks as he unlocks the door, being as quiet as possible. 

“Dunno,” Mingi shrugs. “Could be.” 

Hongjoong guides Mingi inside before putting the key back and making sure the door is closed and locked behind him. He helps Mingi take off his shoes, slipping off his own and leaving them in the foyer once he’s done. 

“Alright,” he whispers. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Mingi can only nod, leaning even more on him as Hongjoong helps him through the dim living room. 

“Which one is your room?” he asks when they get to the hallway, keeping his voice as low as possible. 

Mingi points, not sure if he can keep his voice at a whisper right now. His head is aching horribly, and he knows if Hongjoong wasn’t here he’d be on the floor. 

Hongjoong pushes open the door to his room, helping him inside. Mingi almost laughs at how ridiculous it is to have another member of the gang tucking him into bed, but he holds it back. 

“Alright,” Hongjoong whispers once the blankets are securely tucked around Mingi. “Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. I’ll explain everything. Sleep well.” 

“Thanks Hongjoongie hyung,” Mingi murmurs, eyelids already drooping. 

He can’t be sure, but Hongjoong may smile at that. 

He straightens up, and the sounds of him leaving the room and softly closing the door reach Mingi distantly, already half asleep. 

Too late, he remembers his glasses still in Hongjoong’s pocket. 

Oh well, he thinks, rolling over in bed and pulling the blankets up higher. He’ll get them back soon.