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Minho and Thomas don’t usually take breaks on their morning runs, choosing instead to keep up a steady pace they can maintain for the entirety of their route through the forest on the edge of their little town. They don’t even talk, mostly, the sound of even breaths usually the only sounds that accompany them as they shake off the night’s sleep. It’s just something they do; they get up early out of sheer habit and run. Only after they’ve done so does their day begin, helping with the organization of their new community.
On this day, however, Minho slows down unexpectedly, about halfway through their usual path. Thomas also slows down, stopping just beside Minho, eyebrow raised as he breathes deeply, trying to catch his breath.
“I just – noticed something,” Minho answers the unspoken question, words interspersed with tiny gasps of air. “It’s nothing, just…”
Instantly, Thomas looks around warily, searching for something worrying enough to stop Minho. “What is it?” he asks. It’s been months, and though most of the others have relaxed into their new routines, Thomas still finds it hard let old habits die.
Minho is silent for a long while, and Thomas holds his tongue; silence is uncharacteristic of Minho, and whatever follows his silences are usually important.
“The seasons never changed,” Minho says finally, looking away from Thomas to stare at the leaves on the trees. It’s fall now, and the forest floor is littered with shades of yellow, orange, and red. “In the Maze. For years, it was always the same. I remember once, in the forest—” Minho cuts off so abruptly that Thomas immediately realizes what this is all about.
“It’s so shuckin’ strange, you know? The stupid shank was all upset about the color of the leaves, like it matters. And how he hated missing something he doesn’t even remember. And I told him to quit buggin’ over that stuff, told him to focus on the maps, the Maze.”
Please stop, Thomas wants to say. Please don’t talk about Newt.
“We could have brought him with us. Dragged his shuck ass with us. I could have shown him the stupid leaves and their stupid colours and then maybe…” Minho trails off, the anger that had filled his face draining just as suddenly as it had come.
“Minho.” Thomas doesn’t know how he’s keeping a steady voice, not when everything in him is screaming at him, hurting him. The hand he reaches out to his friend’s shoulder is shaken off, and if possible the rejection hurts the worst. “Minho, there was nothing—”
“Nothing,” Minho sighs. “I know. I know. It doesn’t make it suck any shuckin’ less.”
Thomas’ resolve from months earlier wavers, the one that keeps him from telling Minho the truth. Thomas never forgets, nor does he ever expect to. He sees it playing behind his eyelids when he shuts them, every night, the most painful of all the deaths that cycle through his mind. It’s not even a surprise anymore, when Minho shakes him roughly awake when he starts screaming in his sleep loud enough to wake even Minho. And no one knows – one of the many perks of living only with his friend instead of with the others in their own version of the Homestead – about the times Thomas has had to stifle his sobs into his elbow, Minho’s arm slung tightly around his shoulders.
I can’t do that to him, Thomas thinks as he watches Minho start up his jog again, never quite looking Thomas in the face, following behind. He doesn’t try to pick up conversation again, lapsing back into their familiar silence. He knows Minho likes to pretend about Newt, likes to think that Newt’s still at the Palace, maybe running things like he used to in the Maze, because that’s what Minho expects out of Newt. He knows that no matter how many times Minho comforts him after nightmares, Minho will never let Thomas to do the same. I just can’t.
So Thomas picks up the pace alongside Minho, finishing off their usual course through the forest back to their town. Can’t quite find the same beauty in the leaves as he did before.