Archive of Our Own

Minho doesn’t miss the third or the fourth time Newt hisses, “Leave me,” as he helps half-lift, half-drag his body through the city streets.

He simply ignores it, just like Thomas and Gally must be doing too.

Newt’s bad leg buckles again, and they deposit his body not-so-gracefully against a low concrete barrier.

He looks so much worse than he did half an hour ago. Half an hour ago when Minho was still trying to shake his head clear of residual sedatives and confused thoughts, until a ten-story leap and dunk in an ice cold pool did the work for him.

He’d body-slammed that last guard, figuring that whoever WCKD was against had to be at least somewhat on his side.

Newt and Thomas’ faces had greeted him, clearer than in his hallucinations, in those countless whirling moments where they swooped in to save him again and again, until Grievers and Janson killed them off every time.

Very-real-and-not-imagined Newt coughs, a wet, choking sound that brings a fresh rush of tar black liquid down his chin. “Go,” he whispers, and they all ignore him again.

“Minho,” Thomas says, and it’s in that voice. That voice that means he’s about to throw everything down on the line and hey, is Minho onboard to join him?

It’s not even a real question. Minho would follow Thomas right off a fucking cliff if he asked him to. And if he was told to do it to help Newt? He’d leap before the command was even finished.

“Minho,” Thomas says again. “You have to go. Run as fast as you can. Find Brenda and get the serum.”

Newt is trying to protest, but Minho is already shooting Thomas a side-eye. Splitting up is risky. Too risky.

But he knows what Thomas means. Newt is out of time.

“Go,” Gally says quickly. “I’ll cover you.”

Minho nods, trying to catch his breath and only half-succeeding.

He turns and twists both fists into Newt’s stolen jacket.

“You hold on, you hear?” he grits out. “Not optional." 

The small, lopsided twitch of Newt’s mouth was probably supposed to be a smile, but the exact contours of his lips are hard to read in the shadowed and veiny landscape that used to be a face Minho knew so well.

“Minho, thank you.” His lips soundlessly move, adding, “for everything,” and he knows this is a goodbye.

Minho stands up before he can think further. “Thomas, take care of him.” And then Gally is shooting around the corner and yelling at Minho to move and he does.

He runs as fast as he can, oblivious to the explosions in the world around him, but then something unfamiliar clutches in his chest, squeezes in his calves, and it takes a steadying hand from Gally to help him successfully turn the corner.

They hide for a moment, letting a group of WCKD soldiers sprint by, and Minho realizes how hard he’s breathing.

He’s out of shape.

Months and months of torture, of being chained up and fastened down. Lack of nutrients. Exhaustion.

His body is running on empty and it’s choosing this perfect time to tell him so.

His adrenaline is wearing thin, and every ache and pain is catching up with him.

Keeper of the runners. And now look at him.

He wastes valuable air cursing WCKD, and even if Gally gives him a look like he’s the one about to Crank out, it’s worth it for the rush of anger.

Minho channels it, every last drop of white-hot fury and rage at Janson, at Ava Paige, at Teresa, and at the whole damn Flare virus, and he lets it power him. The pain in his legs feels sweeter now, like he's feeling a fraction of what he’d like to make every so-called doctor and scientist in that lab experience for themselves. 

He runs until Gally’s footsteps are behind him, not evenly paced with him, and he hopes desperately that Newt will be okay. That he’ll be fast enough.

An explosion shakes the ground under his feet, and he stumbles up the last few stairs, but Gally is there to right him and haul him that last few inches.

The Berg is parked on the concrete plateau and Brenda comes charging out, a vial held in her clenched fist. Her hair is so much longer now, Minho thinks. And she’s healthy. There’s nothing Crank about her.

Maybe. Maybe Newt has a chance.

Minho smothers that flicker of hope before it can burn too brightly. He can’t think right now. They have to get the serum to Newt.

Brenda is shouting something to them, but suddenly the city’s emergency lights switch on and a broadcast tone blares through the streets.

It’s Teresa, begging Thomas, pleading him to come back. She’s saying he can save Newt. That his blood is the answer.

Minho wishes he’d had enough time to really get his hands around her throat. To really squeeze and hold until he saw maybe a hint of why she did it. Why she let them all down.

Brenda shakes him out of it first. She’s pushing the serum into his hand but suddenly he can’t hear her anymore.

Wild static fills his ears, and his vision tunnels away. He can feel himself dropping, but he’s helpless to stop it. There’s just not enough oxygen reaching his extremities, and he’s so thirsty.

Water slides down his throat, and as he comes back to himself, he realizes Gally is holding him propped up against his side.

“Come on, Minho,” Gally says in that steely way he has. He starts to stand, slapping at Minho’s back until his legs respond and he shakily stands too. “Brenda already took off. We gotta go now.”

Gally tosses the water bottle back to Jorge, who flashes him a thumbs-up and flat expression.

“Frypan! We’ll be right back.”

“You better be! Run fast, Minho!”

Run. Just run.

He does. He’s not sure how, but his legs carry him, and Gally protects him, firing off rounds sporadically.

He hates himself. He really does. He should be the one sprinting in to help Newt, not stumbling over his own feet like Thomas first did as a Greenie.

Gally helps him awkwardly vault a chunk of rubble before they hear the scream.

It's Brenda, has to be, and they slide around one last corner just in time to see her body be kicked though a doorway to a subway entrance. She skids on the ground, but when she flips her hair out of her face, her teeth are bared in determination. She stoops to grab the serum vial from the ground, then charges back in, Gally hot on her tail. 

Thomas is yelling, an extended grunt of exertion from where he’s lying pinned to the ground by a furious looking Newt, who also happens to be holding a knife inches from Thomas’ heart. 

“Get off him!” Gally shouts, plowing into Newt like a bowling ball. The two go tumbling across the concrete, and both the knife and Gally's gun clatter into a wall.

Minho yanks Thomas up, and they rush to help Gally defend himself from Newt’s snapping teeth.

“Newt! Newt, it’s us! It’s Thomas!”

“Newt, stop! I’m Gally! Stop!”

Minho takes him out at the legs, but Newt’s stronger than he’s ever been before, so it takes all three of them to subdue his flailing limbs.

A tension lifts suddenly, and Newt’s face clears just a little. He gasps and looks at them all with wide, horrified eyes.

“Shit… Minho… Tommy… I—”

He stops struggling and just looks at them, mouth agape, terrified and oozing that oily, black film.

Then a wild yell sounds from behind Minho, and Brenda’s leg flies in to kick Newt straight in the head.

He drops unconscious like a corpse, and Minho tries to push that analogy from his mind.

“Were you all just going to sit and stare at him until he lost it again?” Brenda snaps, but there’s no real heat behind her words, just concern. She’s shoving up his sleeve, and Minho can see the crosshatching of dark, infected veins, and he realizes that if anyone’s body is giving up, it’s Newt’s, not his. 

Brenda injects him as quickly as she can, and the immediate locking of Newt’s muscles doesn’t look good. His fists clench and his good foot points and unpoints. His head is thrown back and his back arches on the ground like some morbid contortion act. 

Then just as suddenly, he relaxes. His breathing sounds less labored, and his expression softens to something more Newt-like.

They all take a moment to just breathe themselves.

“Crazy little shit,” Gally huffs, but it almost sounds like affection from him.

Thomas stands up and picks up his handgun.

“Where are you going?” Brenda asks suspiciously.

He swipes an arm across his sweaty face, then juts his chin sharply at the WCKD tower.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Minho snaps.

“If there’s even—” Thomas’ voice breaks. “If there’s even a chance to save Newt. I gotta take it.”

Brenda turns toward them. “Save him? Isn’t that what we just did?”

“No,” Gally says, “we just prolonged the inevitable. He’ll need more. Constantly. And he’s gonna be stuck looking like. Like that.” He gestures to Newt’s bloody, stained face. “I saw Lawrence go through this. That serum won’t hold him forever.” 

“Then what are we waiting for?” Minho squares his shoulders. “Let’s go find that cure.” 

Thomas shakes his head. “No way. You four are heading back to the Berg. Wait for my call there.”

“And leave you alone with Janson and Teresa and Paige? Not a chance,” Minho fires back.

“Face it, Thomas,” Brenda says with a smile. “We’re here. Might as well tag along.”

“And uh,” pipes up a voice from the ground, “Do I get a say in all this?" 

“Newt!” Thomas gasps, dropping down. Minho follows him and the three of them lock in another hug.

Newt’s still soaked in sweat, and he smells a little too much like death to be comfortable, but he’s rational, he’s speaking, and he isn’t swinging a knife at people, so things do seem to be improving. 

“I say we go,” he says.

Thomas nods morosely. “Gally?”

Gally cocks his gun and checks his ammo clips. “She’s right. We’re here, aren’t we?”

Newt rejects both Thomas and Minho’s extended hands, stumbling to his feet on his own. He’s listing heavily onto his good leg, but he holds his spine straight and his head high.

Then he reaches up to rub his jaw. “Jeez, Brenda. That’s some kick you’ve got there.”

She smiles. “You’re welcome.”

The trek to the tower is still slow going. Brenda and Gally can clip along, but Thomas is exhausted from his fight with Newt, Minho is reaching the end of his second wind, and Newt is basically still half-Crank. 

They have to stop twice per block to hide from WCKD soldiers or Lawrence’s band, and by the time they reach the entrance, it’s in shambles compared to how they’d left it hours earlier.

The glass is broken and missing, and they walk right in, past sparking scanners and smoking sensors.

The elevators are still somehow working, and they chance it just to avoid the exertion of stairs.

Just before they reach their floor, Thomas turns toward them. “Stay here. I’m just gonna scope out the area. Gally? Protect them.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Brenda says, drawing her gun.

Thomas nods at Newt and Minho. “I meant them.”

She smiles at him for that.

Newt scoffs and mutters something rude under his breath.

The doors ding open, and Thomas starts out quietly. Gally jams and holds the Doors Open button.

Thomas tiptoes out until he reaches the opening of another hall on the left. He turns to stare down it at something Minho and the others can’t see, but whatever it is makes him draw his gun and remove the safety.

“Is it true?” he cracks out. “Can I really save Newt?”

“Thomas.” It’s the unmistakeable voice of Ava Paige. “You can save us all.”

She steps out from the hallway, into view of the elevator, and they all hold their breath, frozen.

“Well, certainly not all of us,” comes a new person down the hall they can’t see.

“Janson,” Minho hisses.

Newt immediately slaps a hand over his mouth to shut him up, and Minho tries to ignore its odd, clammy feel.

“Come on now, Thomas,” Janson continues, sounding closer now. “Surely you can’t think everyone deserves saving.”

Thomas’ aim swings from Doctor Paige to what must be Janson. “Right now, I just want to save my friend.”

Doctor Paige presses on his arm, trying to lower the gun. “And if you come quietly, I’ll make sure we do.”

Thomas is practically hyperventilating now. He can’t seem to decide who to aim his gun at.

A soft click at Minho’s side reveals Brenda slowly removing her safety.

“Promise?” Thomas asks hoarsely. “Promise you’ll leave them alone? And you’ll save Newt?”

Doctor Paige steps even closer to him. “I promise.”

The gunshot surprises them all.

Doctor Paige looks down at herself where a dark red stain is creeping quickly across her white shirt. She falls forward, into Thomas’ arms, and as she sinks to the floor, she turns to look straight into the elevator. 

“Go,” she mouths.

Gally lets go of the door button and slams the one for three floors down.

The metal doors shut on Thomas, breathing hard and still facing down Janson.

It’s Brenda that responds first.

“No!” she shouts as they start to descend. “We have to help him!”

“Which we can do, given the element of surprise and some careful planning,” Gally snipes back.

Newt is breathing a little heavily, and Minho realizes he’s leaning on him again.

“You good?” he whispers, and Newt squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

“Just tired.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

It’s better than terrible at least.

Once the doors open, Gally clears the area, gun raised, then waves to them to follow.

Newt stumbles out of the elevator, and his cough is wet again. 

“I’m fine,” he snaps, leveling a glare at them all before anyone can say anything.

In the harsh, bright lighting of the WCKD facility, it’s only all too obvious that Newt was minutes from fully Cranking out. He spits black onto the shiny floor, and Minho looks at him with barely hidden concern.

“Should’ve grabbed more than one serum,” Gally mutters under his breath, but he’s already leading them on to the next area, Brenda covering their rear.

Minho hoists Newt’s arm higher on his shoulder and keeps moving. 

They take the stairs this time, but one landing from the medical bay, Newt goes down again. He’s rasping and shaking, and this time Minho doesn’t have the strength to raise him.

“Keep going,” Minho orders. “You two have to save Thomas.” Brenda turns her gun around and offers it to Minho, but he waves it off. “You need it more.”

Gally gives him a long, stern stare, or maybe it’s completely ambivalent and that’s just how his face always looks nowadays. “Don’t do anything stupid.” He reaches behind him and pulls Newt’s knife out of a pocket. He hands it to Minho pointedly. “Stay alive. Both of you.” Then he and Brenda turn and vanish up the stairs, much faster than they’d been moving when they’d had Newt and Minho in tow.

“Minho,” Newt says. “Minho, I need you… I need you to listen to me.” He pauses to cough, more tar dripping and dripping and dripping.

Minho thinks of Grievers and their mucous strings and tries not to gag reflexively.

“Minho, if I Crank out again, you gotta… you gotta kill me. Thomas… Thomas couldn’t do it, but he had all of you to help him stop me. It’s just us, so if I go… if you even think I’m about to go, you gotta do it.” 

Minho doesn’t even look in his direction or acknowledge his words.

“Minho…”

“No.”

Newt looks even more stricken, an impressive feat for someone covered in dark red veins and blue bruising. “Min—”

“No. I’m not gonna do it, Newt. We made it this far. You go? I go.”

“You’re immune.”

“To the virus, not death.”

Newt struggles into a seated position against the wall. “Min, you can’t let me kill you. You can’t let me do that.” 

“I said no, Newt!” Minho jolts to his feet and tosses the knife. It sails into the center of the staircase and drops several stories down, the metal ringing shrilly as it falls. “You can’t ask me to do that.”

“I should’ve asked Gally while I had the chance,” Newt said bitterly. “He’s the only one… the only one who would’ve done it.”

Minho collapses down next to him by the wall. “We’re so close, Newt.”

“And if I kill you, and Janson kills Thomas, and we just sent Gally and Brenda into a death trap all for nothing? Then what?”

Minho sighs and rubs his face briskly. He’s so tired and dirty, and he just wants to curl up and sleep until he’s rested enough to kick the ass of every last member of WCKD still alive. “Then I guess it won’t matter anyway.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Slim it.” 

Then they sit in the staircase in relative silence, save Newt’s harsh breathing and continuous coughs.

The explosion startles them both out of their trance, tiny flakes of plaster raining down on them from above.

A couple floors up, gunshots ring out.

“Shit,” Minho breathes. “Okay, nap time’s over. We gotta move.”

“Please don’t make me—” Newt starts, but Minho’s already grunting and slinging an arm up over his shoulder.

Newt’s legs spasm, and his cough comes wet and deep from in his chest. He slides off Minho and onto the floor, no longer even capable of limping.

“Okay, nope. No no no,” Minho says, already leaning down to gather Newt up again. His own legs are tired, but he’s getting another superhuman boost of adrenaline and his arms still have some energy left in them. “On my back. Now.”

“Min—”

“Not open for debate. Arms around my neck. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t know how he does it, but he manages to get his legs under him and lift Newt piggy-back off the floor. Minho trots up the stairs with an ease that seems more from his Runner days, and thanks every possible deity that he has the strength to get them to the next floor. 

Outside, a building is going up in brilliantly bright flames, and Minho swears with what little air he has before jogging down a hallway.

He finds an elevator and slams the button for the ground level. The cab makes a horrific scraping sound, but then begins its descent.

When the doors open again at the bottom floor, the world is on fire. Metal beams and falling rubble block the exit, and Minho almost drops Newt in his frantic attempts to shut the door and take them back up. 

“Okay, new plan. Roof.”

The car starts upward again, to the terrifying tune of metal on metal, but it makes it one floor from the top before another larger explosion shakes the tower again.

Minho grabs at the wall for stability. “New new plan. We take the stairs.”

“Min…” Newt tries, but then he can’t speak anymore, too busy trying to hold on as Minho forces the doors open and starts for the staircase.

They’re rounding the corner to the rooftop entrance when a gun clicks behind them. Minho spins as quickly as he can, but it’s Brenda and Thomas, both a little bloodied, but not overtly injured. 

“Oh my god,” Brenda hisses. “I could’ve shot you.”

“Good that,” slurs Newt, and Minho elbows him.

“Where’s Gally?” he asks.

“He’s got Teresa. They should already be up here.”

“Janson?”

Thomas’ mouth irons out into a flat straight line. “Dead.”

“Huh. Good that,” Minho echoes.

Brenda reaches the door first and wrenches it open. It reveals the loud chaos of the outside world, a mixture of explosions, gunfire, screams, and sirens.

There’s also the loud sound of chopper blades.

Minho struggles up the stairs to see the source of the noise. It’s the Berg, with the back hatch popped, and Vince and Frypan inside, yelling and beckoning them forward.

“Gally’s not here!” Thomas shouts.

“Or Teresa!” adds Brenda.

For a second, Minho thinks Thomas is about to go darting back into the burning, crumbling building like the idealist hero he is, but then the door slams open again to expel a limping Gally and bruised Teresa.

“Easy,” Newt chokes in his ear, no doubt noticing the tensing of Minho’s muscles at the sight of her. Then his words dissolve as his own muscles spasm, and Minho feels something warm and slick on his neck.

“Stay with me, Newt. Almost there,” he says and gets an answering squeeze from the arms around his shoulders.

“Let’s go,” Frypan calls again, and then they’re all sprinting as fast as they can.

Gally makes it first, using his momentum to leap the gap between the building and the ramp. Vince grabs his arm and hauls him aboard.

Brenda is next, and she uses her grip on Frypan for support as she leans out and grabs for Teresa, helping her up next.

Thomas makes the jump, then turns and stands at the edge, waving his arm to Minho to run faster.

Halfway across the metal walkway, something goes wrong. Newt’s neck gives out and his head flops back. His arms come loose from Minho, and his whole body tips backwards.

It throws off Minho’s sense of balance, and he falls like a turtle right on top of Newt.

Newt’s cough now sounds like a growling bark, and he’s twitching again, limbs moving in a horribly jerky manner that looks completely inhuman and decidedly Crank-like.

His arms tighten, and now Minho can’t breathe or move, stuck on his back.

“Newt—” he hisses. “S-stop…”

He can faintly hear the others calling for him.

To his left, another building shakes and crumples slightly in a way that tells Minho it’ll collapse at any second. That doesn’t bode well for the structure he’s on either.

Not that that matters too much when he’s literally giving a Crank a horizontal piggy-back.

Newt’s fingers claw into his chest, and Minho reaches behind his head to grab at Newt’s face in retaliation.

It loosens his grasp enough for him to slip free.

“Minho! We gotta go!” Vince shouts, but Minho’s already made up his mind. 

Thomas isn’t the only one allowed to be stupidly loyal around here.

“Then go!” he shouts back and turns to face Newt.

“Minho!” It’s Teresa this time. And she should have no right to ever speak to him again, but she’s still yelling to him like she cares or something. “Minho! I have it!”

He turns at that, and there she is, on the edge of the ramp, still holding tight to Brenda’s arm, and waving a syringe full of bright blue liquid, visible even from here.

The tower jolts again in a foundation-shaking explosion, and it’s the only thing that saves him from a surprise attack from behind.

Newt stumbles and falls next to him, and Minho leaps onto his back and yanks him into a chokehold.

Gasping for air, Newt tears into his arm with his blunt nails, but he’s getting weaker and weaker, starting to pass out. Just before he does, he reaches a brief moment of lucidity.

“W-why…” he gasps, and Minho just squeezes harder.

“Because… I care about you, you dumb shank.”

Then when Newt goes completely limp, he hooks his arms under his shoulders and drags his body as fast as he can.

Vince and Frypan are both reaching their arms out for him. Jorge steers the Berg as close to the tower as he safely can.

Minho tries to hold tightly onto Newt as Vince grabs Minho under the arms as well.

Then the adjacent building groans and begins to fall.

It hits the tower at the same time Minho gets his footing on the ramp. 

The ground crumbles beneath them and Newt just sort of… slips.

He falls out of Minho’s arms and he can only watch as he tips down toward the collapsing remains of the WCKD laboratory.

He is vaguely aware that they all shout Newt’s name.

The mute horror barely has time to register before someone shoves past him, leaping out of the Berg.

A tense fraction of a second passes and then Frypan grunts as his tether goes taut, securing his dangling form beneath the Berg, Newt’s ankle held tightly in both his hands.

It’s a frenzied rush to haul them both in, but Frypan has had more time to rest, not to mention a lack of torture in his past few months, and his grip is strong and sure.

Brenda and Vince drag Frypan to his feet, while Thomas and Gally each sit on Newt’s limbs to pin him down in case he starts to wake up.

Minho leans, shaking, against the side of the Berg’s interior.

With steady, practiced hands, Teresa rolls up Newt’s sleeve and injects him one last time.

Then they wait.

Newt doesn’t move, and for one horrible moment, Minho wonders if he’s actually asphyxiated him, but then his good leg kicks, wildly, and Frypan throws himself down to restrain it.

Newt starts coughing then, eyes open and flashing and black bile flying from his mouth.

Teresa looks terrified, but then Newt hacks hard and whips his head to the side, spitting out a thick mouthful of gunk.

“Minho… Tommy?” he gasps, and the group lets out a relieved breath in tandem.

One by one, they stand up and release him.

Newt’s looking around, confused, before he slowly raises his forearm and looks at it. The dark veins are slowly lightening and receding. The grey pallor of his hand starts to turn fleshy again.

“I— I gave him a stronger dose than you had,” Teresa says to Brenda. “We didn’t know what Thomas’ blood could do then.”

Newt makes eye contact with Minho now, and the white of his eyes starts to come into view. And then the brown of his iris.

Minho works on autopilot, sinking onto his knees next to him and wrapping him in the tightest hug he can manage with his spent arms.

“You crazy shank,” Newt puffs in his ear, and Minho actually finds a laugh in himself.

He winds one hand into the back of Newt’s hair and forces his face into his neck.

Thomas and Frypan push in too, wrapping in a group hug that no one even tries to break up.

Minho is so comfortable, certain that this is real and not a hallucination, with Thomas’ breath puffing at his nape, Frypan’s hand rubbing his back, and Newt’s hair tickling his nose. They’ve all been through a lot, and if Minho actually dozes off, it’s because he deserves it.

He wakes up with a jolt inside a foreign tent. The air smells fresh and salty, and he can hear waves crashing nearby.

He’s alone inside, but when he steps out, he sees a whole crowd of kids, other immunes, running and laughing and playing in the surf.

He sees Frypan sitting on a log, chatting with Gally, Jorge, and Brenda. When they see him, Jorge whispers something inaudible and all four laugh.

Minho stumbles over, still disoriented. “Where’s Newt? And Thomas?”

“What did I tell you?” Jorge chuckles.

“You were right,” smiles Frypan. “He didn’t say hi first.”

Minho has never been particularly bothered with being polite, and he certainly isn’t going to start now, but he does grant them all quick hugs before asking again.

Brenda takes pity on him. “Thomas is over in the tide pools. With Teresa. They’re trying to patch up their friendship some since, you know,” she shrugs, “they’ll be seeing a lot of each other now. Newt’s inside still. He’s been out cold for days now.”

“A lot to recover from,” Jorge adds, nodding. 

Frypan tilts his head in agreement. “The shank’s been through hell and back.”

“Third tent. If you wanna see him,” Gally says. “He’s looking a lot better.”

Minho turns to walk away, but catches himself and throws a quick, “Thanks,” behind him as he goes.

Inside the tent, Newt is sprawled across a cot. He looks perfectly normal. Pretty dirty. Same small scar on his cheek. Hair a bit overgrown again. But nothing that indicates he was ever a Crank.

It seems almost too good to be true.

“Gonna stare all day, or are you gonna sit down,” Newt asks, eyes still shut.

“Sit down, I guess." 

Newt snorts.

Minho sinks down onto the cot, and Newt punches him gently in the thigh.

“You really carried me. All that way. My dead weight.”

“And what, you expected me to leave you behind?”

Newt gives him an odd look. It’s his customary expression where he squints one eye and sticks out his tongue just a bit, and Minho’s missed it so much it physically hurts. 

After weighing his words, Newt answers. “I expected you to make the logical and rational decision to leave me behind. For the good of the group. You know, without… feelings mixed in there.”

“I made my choice.”

“Well, it was a bloody stupid choice.”

“But it worked.”

Newt stares at him again. “Yeah. Yeah, it did.” He frowns and starts to get up, Minho standing to help him. “Well, no use lying around in bed for the rest of my life.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s a sense of wonder there, like he’s shocked to realize how much longer that span of time suddenly is.

Minho puts an arm around Newt’s waist under the guise of holding him close, but Newt can definitely see it for the offer of assistance that it is, and it’s a testament to how tired he must still be that he doesn’t shove it off.

They walk outside and head to a rocky outcrop where they sit and swing their legs over the water.

After a few minutes, Newt stands up and reaches inside his shirt to pull out a small cylinder on a cord.

“What’s that?” Minho asks casually.

“Mm. Nothing important.”

Newt pops it open and pulls out a roll of paper.

Minho quirks an eyebrow. “Sure looks important.”

“It’s a letter to Tommy. I wrote it… back when I thought…”

“You didn’t write me one?”

Newt hesitates. “It seemed, a bit… too hopeful. Like I might jinx it by assuming he’d find you to deliver it. Whatever. Doesn’t matter now.”

With a grunt, he throws the tightly wound paper and the case into the ocean, watching them vanish in the water.

He sits back down again, then scoots closer to Minho and leans into him. Minho wraps an arm around his shoulders, tucking him close.

The wind whips their hair and carries the sound of laughter from the tide pools and chatter from the beach. 

“So,” Minho says. “I didn’t know you even knew how to write.”

The punch to his abdomen feels great.

It feels like being alive.