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“What in the bloody hell happened to you?” Newt demands the second he lays eyes on Minho.
Minho attempts a smile but gives up halfway through. The bruises on his face are unforgiving, even to a stubborn slinthead like himself. “If I told you I was beaten up in a valiant attempt at breaking free—” he begins bravely instead.
“I’d give you a new shiner to keep the ones on your shuck face company.” Newt crosses the room briskly, paying the others who quickly step out of his way no mind. “Don’t make me ask again.”
Minho thinks he hears a gasp somewhere in the room, which had suddenly gone quiet with his arrival and Newt’s subsequent outburst. He resists the urge to roll his eyes; he’s used to this side of Newt, and knows from experience that no amount of gruff attempts at rejecting Newt’s concern will sway him. Nevertheless, he readies himself for a scathing retort.
But then he notices the rest of the room, and almost unwittingly zeroes in on Teresa’s face. On Frypan, and Aris, and Harriet and Sonya. On Brenda. His witty response dies on his lips, and whatever elation he might have felt at the sight of his friends dissipates.
“Third trial,” is all he manages to utter, low enough that most people won’t have heard it. Newt hears it, though, and has known Minho long enough to notice the changes. The tightening in Minho’s shoulders, the angry downturn to his eyebrows.
“Ah,” he replies just as quietly, and suddenly it’s too quiet in the room.
It’s painful, and Newt wishes not for the first time that they were alone. Thankfully, Newt is not the only one to notice the change in atmosphere, and Minho is grateful to Brenda for the first time when she loudly starts up a conversation with one of the girl Gladers from Group B. The rest of them have the wits to take this as a cue to resume their chatter from before.
An unoccupied corner of the room is the best Newt can do as he herds Minho to it, one hand placed carefully on the small of Minho’s back. It’s a gesture lost of neither of them; while not one to accept intimacy from most, Newt has always been an exception.
“What did they do?” Newt asks gently, carefully, and doesn’t miss Minho’s eyes scanning the room, wary of eavesdroppers.
Minho is tempted to lie, or to refuse to answer.
“They tried to get me to make a decision I wasn’t inclined to make,” Minho chooses to say.
“And that was enough to beat the snot out of you?” Newt asks, incredulity colouring his voice.
“I’m a stubborn guy,” Minho says distinctly, shrugging heavily. He won’t regret it – never will – but he knows full well that his logic will be lost on Newt.
“Then you’ve got more klunk for brains than I originally thought,” Newt snaps. “And that’s saying something.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hot anger and frustration flare up, and Minho has to take care to keep his fists unclenched. “You don’t know what they asked me to do.”
“I can imagine.” Newt glares at his friend before sighing in resignation. “Minho, one of these days your shuck moral fibre is going to get you killed. Or someone else.”
And if that last bit isn’t Minho’s greatest fear.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he says brusquely, tearing his eyes away from Newt’s. “I made my choice and I stuck to it. It’s over.”
Newt recognizes the dismissal when he hears it and gives up the conversation. “You’re the last one to finish,” he says instead, changing the subject. “Sort of.”
He fills Minho in on the days lost waiting for Minho to finish his third trial, and Minho is thankful for the distraction. It doesn’t take long for him to resume his leadership position, at least amongst the boys – he let Harriet deal with the girls, and she had no problem with this arrangement. Arguments are had about their current whereabouts, the future, Thomas. And if anyone notices the way he can’t quite look at certain people in the eyes, they don’t mention it. If anyone notices the new defensive bite in Minho’s words, they don’t bring it up. They don’t ask or pry.
They, too, have all undergone three trials, after all.