Mists of Celeste - an Ateez Fanfic

act two ➻ part 8.5

Jongho doesn't need to be told what's going on. He senses it before Yeosang even comes to the door, feels Yeosang's presence outside the door, the heat of his emotions, and the slight panic that courses through his veins. He doesn't need to be told that Mingi is having an episode because he can feel it. Which is why when Yeosang goes to knock on the door, Jongho opens it a breath too soon, and Yeosang nearly topples forward and trips over the air. Jongho doesn't need to reach out and catch him – Yeosang stays on his two feet just fine – but he does regardless, rough hands hitting the much smaller man square in the chest to keep him from falling forward. He doesn't need to ask, yet he does.

"Mingi?"

"Mess hall."

"Okay. Did he hurt anyone?" Jongho has the questions memorized. No matter how many times he says them, the answers rarely change, and he knows Yeosang well enough to pick up on the emotional cues. That's how he knows Wooyoung is fine before Yeosang even opens his mouth to tell him so.

"No, I got Wooyoung out of there before he could."

"Hongjoong?"

"Tried already."

"Yunho?"

"Couldn't help."

"Ah," Jongho exhales, even though he already knew the answers to those questions before asking them. He's the last resort. He always is. Hongjoong demands priority – he needs to feel useful somehow, but it always backfires and hurts him in the end. Then comes Yunho, the ever desperate healer, the arrogance that drives him to believe that he can fix everything and everyone – including Mingi. The reality, however harsh and cruel it may be, is that none of them are Jongho. None of them understand Mingi the way he does. None of them are Berserkers. It's just a simple fact, but one that they can't seem to wrap their minds around, which is why Jongho is always the last resort.

He pushes past Yeosang to step into the corridor. His steps are hurried but not frantic; there is no panic or worry in his bones as he walks towards the mess hall. It's routine almost. Perhaps someone else might feel bitterness or some sort of resentment towards this system they have. Not Jongho though. He bears no hatred or thinly veiled anger about the arrangement they carry out. Part of him feels the tuggings of responsibility when he looks at Mingi. When he looks at Mingi and sees... something. Something different, something painful, something raw and broken.

When Mingi first joined the crew, the others all expected Jongho to understand him. To read him like a book and take him apart with ease. He hadn't been able to do that at any point in time. Because he and Mingi are not the same, never have been and never will be. Jongho was raised by a loving mother and father. A mother who was a Berserker just like him, who took care of him and looked after him without any hesitation. Taught him everything there was to know about what it meant to be a Berserker. Mingi, on the other hand, was not given that luxury. His father never loved him; he loved money. Power. Blood. And that's what Mingi gave him, because it was the only thing he knew.

The mess hall is quiet when he steps inside. Not empty, but quiet. Hongjoong stands at the edge of the room, leaning up against the frame of the entrance with arms crossed over his chest. Disappointment radiates off him in waves, but not directed at anyone except himself. Yunho stands beside him with a similar stance, although he can't look at Mingi's curled form. The room is otherwise empty, and that's probably for the best. And Mingi. Mingi lies on the floor, not near the center but somewhere off to the side between a few tables. He's on his hands and knees, back curved in a way that is painful to look at, and as Jongho draws nearer, he can see the tremble in his shoulders. He doesn't think to ask what happened. It wouldn't be necessary anyway. He barely notices that Yeosang is no longer hot on his heels and following his steps.