Chapter Text
~~~ Newt ~~~
"Newt!" Chuck yelled, waving his arms around joyfully. "It's Thomas!"
Newt yawned, having just gotten up from "bed". "What's 'homas?" He slurred, his voice still very groggy from sleep.
Chuck rolled his eyes. "Thomas died, you Shank!" He said. Newt gave him a glare. He was glad that Tommy was coming to join them, but he'd rather that Thomas had more time with Minho up in the real world. Though he hadn't peered at reality for a long time and considering the list of tasks Alby had set for him last week, Newt thought it was fairly justified.
Wait, what did Chuck say? Thomas died! Newt got out of bed immediately, not caring that he was wearing pyjamas. "C'mon, Chuck, let's go!" He yelled way too enthusiastically for this early in the morning. Not that time really existed in this realm, though they did have ways to keep track of events gone and dates.
"Woah, not so fast, Newt," Chuck said, but his voice fell to deaf ears. Newt was pulling on Chuck's arm persistently, and if it wasn't for the fact that the situation was not funny at all, Newt would have laughed at the comical image he and Chuck made; after all, one of them was abnormally tall and muscled while the other one was fat (sorry Chuck) and short.
"No time, Chuck, c'mon!" Newt's shouting awoke a few of the other Gladers who lived closer by, and they came out of their huts too, their time at the Glade (or outside, if they had survived further than that) giving them fighter senses that had all of them up by the second.
"What's goin' on, Newt?" Alby grumbled. "It's way too early for this klunk," he added.
Newt glared. "Y'all are wasting time," he muttered. "Thomas is here and we need to go greet him."
"He's unconscious and it might be a while," Chuck peeped, probably trying to be helpful but in no way soothing Newt's irritated nerves.
"What do you mean he's unconscious?" Newt cried, his hysteria reaching maximum levels. This wasn't the reunion that he had hoped for.
Teresa peeked out of her hut. "I think he means Thomas is unconscious, Newt," Teresa sassed. After Teresa had died underneath the cement for Thomas, Newt came to terms with her and forgave her, and now they had a tentative relationship with each other. They were the kind of friends to exchange banter and occasionally go to feedback for, but they wouldn't really share their deepest secrets.
Newt shared those secrets with Alby and Teresa with Chuck. Newt didn't really see how a 13 ("I'm 14, Newt!") year old could help with the horror she'd gone through, but to one their own.
"Yes, but why?" Newt demanded. "No one's unconscious when they enter death. At least, not for long."
Alby swallowed. "They'll only be unconscious if they're still processing what happened during their death. Knowing Thomas..."
Newt groaned. Of course, Thomas. Of course. "We should go check on him, anyhow."
******
Surprisingly, it's Alby who exclaims it in a concerned voice. "Oh, goodness," he murmured. "What happened?"
Newt bore his eyes into the body of the boy who survived, who led, who helped, who died. The corpse, to be exact, but he'd be as good as new in no time.
"Obviously, his death was painful," Teresa, ever the medic, told everyone.
"No kidding," Newt growled. "He's bloody blue and his wrist bone is...sticking out of the skin!" Teresa gave him a look that said: "I know".
Newt glared at everyone and knelt by Tommy's side quickly. "What are you shanks waiting for? Tommy here needs help, in case that wasn't obvious enough."
Snapped out of their trances by Newt's harsh words, Clint and Jeff stepped forward. "He has a broken wrist," Jeff noted.
Teresa rolled her eyes. "Oh, we didn't know that!"
Clint glared. "Maybe you should do it, then?" He said, stepping back. "The stage is yours!"
Teresa glared. "Maybe I will."
Teresa ushered Newt out of the way as she lifted Thomas' shirt. She prodded his ribs a bit and took his wrist gently. "I'd say he fell from somewhere high, with how his skull is very swollen and bleeding heavily, not to mention the bruises and broken ribs. However, that doesn't account for the open fracture on his wrist. I'm also willing to bet that he has more injuries."
Newt sighed. Typical Tommy, always getting himself into trouble. "We can ask him when he wakes up."
Newt flipped Thomas' wrist gently and heaved his knees and shoulders up, wincing when he saw the swollen ankles that were most definitely broken – he didn't need Teresa to tell him that. He lifted Thomas slowly, his stomach lurching when he saw the blood and cuts on his wrist. Newt took slow, wobbly steps to one of the empty huts and placed Tommy on the bed gently. No one followed, the lazy bums. Probably to get more sleep.
"I'll get the supplies, Newt," Clint muttered, shaking his head fondly at Newt and how he cradled Thomas gently. Teresa didn't stand a chance.
******
"You've got a talent for getting into trouble, Tommy," Newt murmured, brushing some hair from Thomas' forehead. The unrealistic looking chocolate brown hair that had frustrated Newt beyond imagination. No, no, he didn't dislike it, he was merely commenting on the fact that he could not help but give Tommy what he wanted when Thomas looked like that, especially paired up with widened eyes and trembling lips.
No, Newt will not drive his increasing affections now. He'll have time to sort that out later; what mattered the most was taking care of Tommy.
"'m sorry," A sleepy voice mumbled, the sound bringing tears to Newt's eyes. "I thought there wasn't any pain in Heaven? I died, right? That's why you're here?"
Newt gave a watery chuckle. He could rebuke Tommy for getting hurt later, but for now, it was better to pretend that everything was okay. "You don't have to be sorry, Tommy. Also, that's a myth. There is, we just have all the buggin' supplies to help you. Who knew that they had the cure to the Flare? If WICKED had taken a trip here..."
Seeing Thomas' wince at the Flare, Newt instantly felt guilty. He had forced the boy to kill him, after all. Best not to bring that up now – they could wait till Thomas was better.
"How did you die?" Newt asked, eyeing Thomas' wrist. Thomas' eyes were squeezed together in obvious pain, a few tears leaking out of his eyes. He was not moving, though trembling slightly. Newt regretted the question immediately after seeing that Thomas had squinted his eyes even tighter, his good (or should he say "less injured" - it was still bruised and scratched badly. He'd have to ask about that later. Newt had an inkling of what it was about, but he didn't want to think about it. Why would sweet Tommy do such a thing?) hand gripping the sheets.
"How's Minho?" Newt tried again lightly, hoping to calm the grip Thomas had on the crinkled cotton sheets that were stained with blood, now. No matter, Newt could see to them later.
Apparently, that wasn't the right question to ask because Thomas started trembling violently. "Did something happen to Minho?" Newt asked, his eyebrows going up.
Thomas shook his head and winced when it jostled his severely bruised neck. The bruises looked like a blue and purple cast slung around his pale neck, the only interruption being the many moles and freckles that dotted Thomas' skin. Newt growled when he saw that the bruises were actually in the shape of hands. "Were you choked?" Newt demanded, his fear coming out.
Thomas nodded. "Can we not talk about it now, please, Newt?" He mumbled, his sad brown eyes looking up. Newt decided at that moment that if Thomas made that expression again, he would give Thomas anything he wanted. His angel (literally) didn't deserve to be that sad; he would do anything to make him happy again.
Newt nodded, his rebellious hand walking its own way to Thomas' uninjured (less injured) one. He let his bigger and coarser (from working as a Track-hoe) hand envelope Thomas' small hand that looked so fragile in the morning sunlight streaming into the windows. His thumb caressed over Thomas' scratched skin softly, as if trying to soothe away the old wounds that would never truly disappear. Newt would know – he still had his limp.
******
"Okay, this is going to hurt a bit, Thomas," Clint was saying, his eyes focused in an empathetic gaze. "I gave you the pain medicine, but I can't give you too much or you'll be vomiting a lot since your body is still weak, so it will hurt."
Thomas nodded, his grip (since when were they holding hands? Oh, right, Newt started it) on Newt's hand tightening slightly. He had no doubt that when Clint starts, it would tighten into a vice-like grip. He knew the strength that Thomas possessed, and even when he was weak and injured, his fingers could break a bone. Newt had no doubt about that. However, Newt was also positive that Tommy wouldn't hurt him. He trusted Tommy.
Clint fixed the wrist with a stare and snapped it into place quickly, his face turning pale at the process. That was nothing to Thomas' reaction, though. Thomas let out a pained shriek so loud, it left a ringing in Newt's ears. Vaguely, behind the ringing, he felt his hand being crushed and his circulation being cut off by Tommy.
By the end, after Clint had secured the cast, Thomas had a bleeding lip (from biting) and his face was pale. There were tear tracks on his cheeks and he looked like he was about to faint. Clint glanced apologetically at Thomas and scurried out the room quickly. Newt's hand was throbbing, but it was nothing compared to Thomas' wrist and his overly pale and grey parlour. He could worry about it later. Newt reached his arm underneath Thomas' back, stilling when he felt Thomas stiffening.
He waited for Thomas to relax before he lifted Thomas up a little (he may look lean, but he was just as strong as Minho) and made it so Tommy was laid down comfortably on his back. He took the floral blanket that was in the cupboard and draped it over Thomas' small body that looked so broken (in fact, it was broken. A mass of broken bones). There, Thomas laid, and Newt cooed internally at how cute the adorable boy looked wrapped up like a marshmallow.
Thomas' hooded honey eyes looked on the verge of sleep. Newt held his less damaged hand gently, and his look of bliss was absolutely adorable. He drifted off – Newt could tell because his eyes fluttered shut and his breaths evened out into small snores.
Newt didn't know how long he spent looking at Tommy's fanned eyelashes, but it was definitely a while.
******
Newt was shaken from his stupor when Thomas' hand trembled in his. The small hand, enclosed by Newt's, was trembling violently in Newt's grasp. Newt, seeing his warm hand was doing nothing to soothe Thomas, he (reluctantly) let go.
Thomas started shaking even harder. It looked even comical in the floral blanket, but Newt could laugh about it later. "'m sorry, Newt!" Thomas mumbled, tear tracks running on his cheeks. Newt sighed, his heart practically breaking to pieces. "Please, don't, Minho!"
Whatever the Minho in the dream did, it was horrible, because Thomas soon started sobbing. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He cried consistently.
Newt's heart completely broke into shards. His poor Tommy was crying. He recalled what Alby did when he'd wake up with dreams of his life as a Crank. He remembered that Alby would shake him awake and ask him if he wanted to talk about it. He started out shaking his head but by the end, after talking about it, he always felt so much better.
Newt shook Thomas' shoulder, bracing himself for the flood of tears that would follow. Sure enough, right after Thomas woke, his shoulders tense, he relaxed and turned into a mess of tears on Newt's lap. Wait. When did he get on Newt's lap? Oh, right, Newt moved him to his lap. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
"It's okay, Tommy," Newt whispered, running his cold fingers over Thomas' spine. He had a guess on what the nightmare was about. He saw it too, sometimes, him going crazy and Thomas holding the gun. Only, unlike Thomas, he dreamed of his Crank self killing Thomas instead. He dreamed of the blood spattering on the concrete. He dreamed of the horrifying image of Thomas with a bullet in his temple. Now was not the time to get a panic attack, Newt.
"I killed you, Newt," Thomas was saying. "It was horrible and you said you blamed me and you hate me! I'm sorry!"
Newt sighed. He had trusted Thomas to kill him before he got to pass the Gone and he expected the guilt that followed, but he was definitely not expecting Thomas to be like this. He was sorry that he had ever asked this of Tommy; Tommy had right to hate him, to be afraid. "What was the last part about Minho, Love?" The nickname slipped out, but Thomas didn't notice it. Or, at least, Newt didn't think he did.
Thomas flinched violently. "You're going to hate me," he mumbled, but with certainty.
Newt shook his head assuringly, and apparently, that was enough for Thomas. Thomas told him everything.
******
By the end of it, Newt was almost in tears. They were not tears of sadness, oh no. Newt was furious with Minho. He was absolutely seething.
"That shuck-face is going to have some serious explaining to do," Newt muttered darkly. "He'd better have a good reason."
"Please!" Thomas begged. "It was all my fault!"
Newt sighed. "It's not your fault, Tommy," Newt growled, making Thomas flinch.
Thomas sighed. Newt could tell he didn't believe him, but he could reassure him later.
~~~ Minho ~~~
"Minho, you –––"
"I know, Brenda," Minho growled. "I shouldn't have attacked Thomas. I shouldn't have..."
"You drove him to the edge of that cliff!" Brenda screamed. "Although if you dare do the same thing..." She left that part unsaid, but Minho knew.
"Don't worry, I –––"
Before he could finish that sentence..."HELP!" Someone screamed from outside. "HELP ME! PLEASE"
Minho sprinted out of the hut, his eyes darting around. He finally pinpointed it on a woman whose hair was messy and her face looked like it was smudged with shadows. Minho's heart sunk when he saw that they weren't shadows, it was ash. A cabin close to theirs (his and also Thomas') was burning.
"My daughter's in there and so's my son!" The woman exclaimed frantically. "I came back from the centre and the house was burning!" Minho assumed the lady had tried to get them out as it seemed she had multiple burns across her body and her clothes were in tatters. It reminded Minho of back in the Glade when ––– no. Minho would not start crying now.
"I'll help you," Minho declared. "Brenda, can you tell people to bring water and that we have problems?" Wrapping his shirt over his nose and mouth, he ran head straight into the flames. Brenda groaned. He was starting to act like the replacement Thomas.
Minho, meanwhile, was still in the burning building. His eyes were watering from the smoke and he was having trouble breathing deeply, resulting in lightheadedness. He squinted through the smoke and willed himself to hold his breath. Here goes nothing, he thought and sprinted into the kitchen, where he thought he heard two children crying. Sure enough, two kids at roughly the ages of 13 and 11 were huddled in the corner, trying to creep away from the flames stalking them.
"Kiddos!" Minho yelled, his voice scratchy and muffled. "Follow me, I'll get you out!" The kids crawled blindly to his voice, heads darting between their saviour and the flames.
They followed Minho to the door crawling and they were just about to make it out when a large piece of wood dropped on the girl's leg.
She gave a scream, and that scream reminded of Thomas' terrified one when Minho ––– no, Minho. Not the time to give yourself a panic attack. Time to get the kiddos out. With the last of his strength, he lifted the wooden piece off the girl's leg and she quickly limped towards the exit, sniffling slightly, trusting her brother and Minho to follow. Minho saw the boy rushed out, but before he could, he felt the fire burning at his back.
He felt a sensation as if his skin was being cut open, bit by bit as if the lightning had struck him again, but 100 bolts of it at once. He briefly thought if Thomas felt the same thing when he was punching him. Minho closed his eyes and let himself fall back into the flames. He could apologise to Thomas and make it right to Newt.
He could see them again.
And so, Minho let the trickling but rushed flames consume him with no regrets.
******
He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was white. Then it was green and blue, all blurred onto one flat surface like oil paints spattered messily and swirled on a canvas. The next thing he could comprehend was a blue sky. Did Brenda save me? Minho questioned in his head. It was either that or...he was dead.
He didn't want to accept it. Sure, he hadn't regretted anything when he fell back into the flames, but Minho? The boy who did everything he could to live? The boy who set aside personal virtues to live? The boy who survived and finally died in a house fire? He felt like his entire life had been cheated. In fact, it had been, as he currently had no life now. Or, that is, if he was actually dead.
The next thing that came to him was an achingly familiar voice – one Minho thought he would never hear again. "I wonder which poor bugger just died..." the accented voice commented and a snigger was heard from that same blonde. "We call this place the box." Minho was definitely dead. There was no way...
A giggle – a giggle! came from whoever was next to Newt. "I'm assuming this place is called the Glade?" The owner of the giggle asked rhetorically.
Minho sucked in a breath. This was Thomas and Newt. Newt, who Thomas killed, and Thomas, who he killed. Oh, yes, Minho was starting to see a pattern here. Newt sounded like how he did back in the Glade when he was carefree but this time without the pressures and the exhaustion, though he did sound a bit tired. But Thomas. His adorable giggle was nothing like the usual grief-stricken and exhausted Thomas. The Thomas in Paradise had dark circles. The Thomas in Paradise never laughed like that.
This is the real Paradise, Minho thought.
"Oh, it's –––" Newt's voice and footsteps cut off abruptly when Minho looked up. "The Shuck-face!" Newt called, his face contorting to rage. It was a controlled rage that scared Minho, honestly. Crank Newt's rages were insane but Minho could fight him. Normal (and scary) Newt's, though? He knew what he was doing and Minho'd better run; pity he couldn't do that as he was in no condition to do it and he knew.
Minho winced when he glanced up at Newt who had his eyebrows knitted together heavily. Next to him, there was Thomas.
Minho would've taken the moment to appreciate how small Thomas looked next to Newt, but he was too busy tracing his eyes over the purple, blue, green bruises. He winced when he saw the brunette's eyes widen. Thomas backed away from Minho quickly, though he looked like it was torture to do so – his ankles and legs did not look good.
It was like Newt could read his mind. "And whose fault is that, Shank? Huh?"
"I'm sorry," Minho murmured, wishing he could wrap Thomas up in a blanket and never let him go, wishing he could kiss all the wounds to make hem better – wait, what? Since when was he attracted to Thomas, his (perhaps former) best friend?
Since forever, a voice in his mind taunted him. He remembered how he would show off his muscles back in the Glade when he and the Greenie went running, snickering when it earned him a blushing Thomas. During moments like those, he would wish that he could plant kisses on each of the individual moles and freckles on the apples of those sharp cheekbones that would blush pink under him.
Instead, it came to this.
"Sorry doesn't cut it, Minho!" Newt howled, jabbing his thumb at Thomas, who shrank away. "Look at Tommy, Minho! He's been cutting! You were so supportive when I did it, what happened to that, huh? Do you not support your supposed best friends anymore?" Ouch. Those words sunk in like the blade that Gally had aimed at Chuck, the hilt burying itself with a thud in Minho's heart.
But was he really cutting? Minho's heavy eyes fell onto Thomas' pale, bony wrist, where there were long, neat diagonal cuts that were scarred with even whiter skin than the area next to that.
"It's okay, Newt," Thomas' quiet voice interrupted the tense silence. "Let's just...not. Minho looks like he's hurt, let's take him to the medjacks'." At that, Minho glanced down. Yes, he was hurt, but a couple of burns was nothing he couldn't handle. Nothing compared to Thomas, at least. Most of that damage was done by him.
"It's not nothing, Tommy," Newt argued, but he looked tired. "Fine, let's get this Shuck-face to the medjacks'."
Minho stood up achingly, and he saw Thomas' red-rimmed amber eyes throw him an apologetic look. Thomas was too nice for his own good, really. If he was Thomas, he'd be waiting for himself to be the one to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. It was a pity Thomas didn't know how to protect himself from Slintheads like Minho...
******
"Ouch!" Minho growled as Newt wrapped a bandage tightly around his ribs. "Are you trying to kill me or something?"
"You're already dead, Slinthead," Newt said calmly. "But if you weren't, you'd be dead soon after I'm finished with you."
Minho gulped. There was a reason why Newt was second-in-command in the Glade. Newt could keep order and he was nice with the Greenies but he could be scary when he wanted to.
Minho was so shucking dead. Luckily, he was still smart enough to say nothing. I know what you must be thinking, my dear readers – Minho, smart? Really? But yes, against the contrary opinion, Minho did actually know when to shut up, and this was definitely a good time to. Shutting up now...
"What were you thinking?" Newt ranted. Minho thanked whatever gods there were in the sky that Thomas wasn't here – he felt bad enough as it was, he didn't need to torture himself further with the image of a broken Thomas. However, some part of him reminded him that he deserved it since it was his own (direct) fault that Thomas was badly injured and needed rest and lots of medicine, anyway.
Minho could hear Thomas' shriek from the far off hut, crying in pain.
Newt ignored it in favour of scolding Minho further, but you could see the pained impression that passed over his face. "Why would you do that to him, Minho?" Oh, shuck. Newt was doing that guilt thing again, where he knew the answer to the question he was asking but he was only asking it to make you feel guilty...and it was definitely working.
Minho's face fell even further if that was possible. "He...killed you..." Minho whispered pathetically, willing himself to keep eye contact with Newt.
"Oh, I didn't know that, shuck-face!" Newt huffed, pacing rapidly now that he was done with Minho's ribs. Minho was tempted to tell Newt that the pacing would aggravate his leg, but decided against that as Newt was in no mood to hear it. "That's not an excuse to drive him to the cliff's edge! It's hypocritical of you, isn't it? You killing him because he killed me? And that doesn't cut it! I begged for death and you...you..."
"I'll make it up to him..." Minho muttered, his face heating up. "Please, Newt, help me. I need to make it up to him."
Newt sneered. "I could, but I doubt you'd need any help. Tommy's way too trusting for his own good," Newt added reluctantly. "I hate that he's forgiven you already."
"He has?" Minho asked hopefully, lifting his watery eyes up to Newt's nose, not mustering the courage to look at Newt's cold blue eyes yet.
"I have," A voice peeped from the door. "But I won't say no to you making it up to me," it added cheekily.
Newt sighed, exasperated. "You act like a bloody kid, Tommy."
Frankly, Minho agreed, but he wasn't about to tell that to Thomas who claimed he was so "mature" and "manly" (his words, not Minho's). Whenever he said so, Minho thought he looked like a 5 year old pretending to be a superhero. Thomas wasn't very intimidating, to be honest. His cute button nose; thin, pale frame; too wide eyes like a barbie's; and scatter of freckles and moles didn't make him look very threatening. On the contrary, he looked adorable, like he should be clutching a bright teddy bear with a bow to match his tousled chocolate brown hair and too big liquid amber eyes instead of a gun.
Minho thought Thomas might have passed for a large doll if he ever stood in the toy store.
"No, I don't!" Thomas exclaimed, pouting. "I am perfectly manly, thank you very much." And there goes the manly klunk again. Minho thought Thomas would be better off pretending to be a barbie – at least he sort of looked like one. Maybe if he grew his hair a bit longer...
"Manly indeed, Tommy," Newt grinned, stifling his laughs. "You and I must have very different definitions of 'manly'."
"I second Newt's definition," Minho chimed in.
Thomas' pout grew and he stuck his plump, wobbly bottom lip out. Minho wanted to nip at that rosy piece of goodness and he could tell that Newt wanted to, too. He was okay sharing, but it was a pity that Thomas was oblivious as shuck. Unless Minho and Newt formulated a plan on how to tell it to his face (not that Minho's last confession went well – literally saying "I love you" wasn't enough for him!) and make it obvious, Thomas certainly wouldn't be making the first move.
"Stop pouting, Tommy," Newt said. "Your lips should be illegal, it's unfair how convincing you are."
Thomas sighed. "If I were that convincing, I could have convinced Teresa not to almost kill me in the Scorch. Speaking of Teresa..."
Oh. Of course, Thomas was enthusiastic to see Teresa. And Minho and Newt had been so sure that Thomas was into them, too...
~~~ Teresa ~~~
"Teresa!" Thomas exclaimed, doing his best to sprint at you but failing miserably.
"Careful, Tom," the aforementioned girl (you) said, holding your hands out in a pacifying gesture. "Don't aggravate your leg."
Thomas pouted. You could see the hungry looks Newt and Minho sent in and the glares you received. Pity they didn't see the romance you and Aris already had. Well, that was, before you died. You hoped that Aris would remain in the land of the living for longer.
To be honest, Thomas was cute, kind, and everything a significant other should be, and if he wasn't as straight as a circle, you might have considered dating him, but anyone with eyes could see his longing looks at Newt and Minho – it was just that he was too oblivious (or put in the previous way: he didn't have eyes) to see that Newt and Minho wanted him, too.
"Who cares about the stupid leg?" Thomas muttered loudly, snapping both Minho and Newt's head to him.
"We do!" Both protested, glaring at you again even though you had been on their side! Ungrateful bastards...
Honestly, this game of matchmaker, mutual pining, obliviousness, and jealousy was getting tedious. Maybe you should do something about it...
~~~ Thomas (or Tommy, as Newt calls him affectionately) ~~~
"Would you take us?" Minho and Newt asked me, holding out the perfect looking flowers grown in paradise.
Usually, I would've teased them about being saps, but now was really not the time. "You guys really want me in your relationship?" This seemed like a hallucination – the guys of my dreams liking me back and inviting me to join their relationship? Impossible, stop hoping Thomas. Except, it was really happening.
"Of course!" I squealed instead, putting my arms around Minho and Newt collectively. They weren't quite long enough to wrap around Minho and Newt's broad shoulders, and as much as I hate to admit it, I really like it when Newt and Minho bundle me up in blankets and Newt force-feeds me soup ("shut up, Newt, I'm perfectly manly!").
Newt and Minho grinned at each other and I was just about to feel left out before both of them placed a kiss on the top of my cheekbones. "Mmmmm...beautiful..." Minho muttered under his breath as he blew air at my cheeks, heating them up. Newt nodded furiously.
I blushed under their intense stares and they both chuckled. "Shut up, Shanks!"
"You sound ridiculous, Thomas," Minho told me bluntly, wrapping me up in his veined, muscular arms. "I love you though."
I smiled. Me too, Minho, me too.
*******
"I love you, Tommy," Newt was whispering, and I could feel the deep rumble of his voice from where I was cradled to his naked chest.
"Me too," Minho whispered into my ear from where he was spooning me, making goosebumps appear over my skin and I shivered.
"I love you guys too," I murmured, drifting off to the smell and gentle caresses from Minho and Newt.