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After the Doors close behind Thomas, Newt doesn’t move. He feels more than sees the looks the rest of the Gladers are giving him, and a distant part of him knows he should be here for them and take up the leading role right now, but he doesn’t move. He barely blinks, eyes still trained on the Doors in front of him, like looking away for just a moment would cement that moment in reality. Like until then, as long as he stays, there’s still a chance.
He’s lying to himself, he knows. It’s all he can do to keep himself from letting out the scream he feels building in his chest, and yelling until it rips his throat out.
“Who knows, maybe they’ll be fine.” It’s Chuck next to him. Newt has no idea when he got there. Or what time it is now. All he knows are the Doors before him. “I mean, Minho’s the Keeper, right? He knows what he’s doing. And Thomas kept going on about wanting to be a Runner so maybe he’ll be good at it too. Alby…” his voice falters for a second, “well, I’m sure Alby’ll be fine too. Maybe they won’t even see him. And Minho knows the Maze better than anyone else here, I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”
Newt can’t be mad at him. He can tell Chuck is scared of what it would mean to lose three people at once, including their leader and one of the Keepers, and he’s still trying to comfort Newt. He’s a little grateful, really. And Chuck’s a kid, even more than the rest of them, something Newt can’t ever forget.
But Chuck’s never been in the Maze, has only heard stories about it. Newt has. Newt’s run every inch and ever changing corner of the stupid place until it made him lose his damn mind. He’s seen Grievers, one at a time and during the day and from far enough away, and it’s enough to extinguish any bit of hope he could have. There’s a reason none of the other Runners have come to talk to him.
Newt’s never felt like throwing up this much in his life, and he doesn’t hesitate to include all 14 years he doesn’t remember in that.
“Chuck,” he says instead, and his voice sounds odd. “Go get dinner.”
A second passes, two, and then comes the sound of footsteps leaving in the grass. At least the kid’s smart enough to know not to linger.
Newt doesn’t move.
He doesn’t remember sitting down, but he blinks and he’s in the grass just where he was standing, throbbing pain coursing through his bad leg. He idly wonders if it would break into pieces if he tried to put any weight on it. He knows it won’t. That’s still what it feels like.
“Here.” There’s a plate appearing before him, that he takes automatically and places in his lap. He doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Frypan next to him now, which is good because he still won’t avert his eyes. “You’d better eat something.”
He doesn’t try to tell him not to worry, which Newt appreciates. He knows that’s what the food means, anyways. He doesn’t reply, partly because his jaw feels locked in place with how much he’s been gritting his teeth, partly because he’s not sure he could produce any noise that resembles a word at all anyway. There’s an animal in his throat that wants out, and he can’t let it. If he lets it, it’s over.
His heart rate hasn’t settled since night fell, and that can’t be good for him because there’s rushing in his ears and he feels dizzy and he’s wondering if he’s ever going to breathe normally again, without feeling like there’s fabric in his mouth and water in his lungs and every inhale gets him less air than the previous one.
And then it’s nighttime and he hasn’t touched the food Frypan brought him and everyone else ought to be asleep by now and his throat is all seized up because he’s let himself wonder what he’s going to do in the morning when the Doors open and no-one walks out. Because there’s three of them in there and—and Alby’s probably good as dead already, stung and without the Serum, and the Greenie would have to be a bloody walking cheat code to get through this alive with no training or experience in there, if he hasn’t klunked his pants and rolled over in a corner (which admittedly doesn't seem like Thomas’ style, but Newt’s never seen him deal with a Griever so really, who knows) and Minho—
Newt can’t think about Minho.
He can’t look away from the stupid wall, waiting with an impossible ache in his chest for it to open again—waiting to see if it's hell or salvation here for him on the other side—but he can’t think about Minho out there, or he’s sure he'll finally go crazy.
He remembers now, a little too clearly, how frightened he’d been when he realized how big a space Minho had carved for himself into his life. Newt had been here long enough to see Runners die, to see Gladers get stung and change , and the idea of Minho ever being in one of these situations and where Newt couldn’t do anything to help, where he could only deal with the aftermath, terrified him to the bone.
And it’s not like it’s only him—Newt feels sick to his stomach every time he remembers how Alby looked, unconscious, and he’s sure the only reason he’s not thrown up yet is that he still hasn’t eaten anything—but Alby’s usually somewhere in sight and Minho’s always out there and Newt knows he can’t ever go with him again, not when walking is sometimes enough to shoot pain through his leg so strong his vision gets spotty.
Besides, it’s different with Minho—it’s been different, for months. They haven’t really talked about it because they’re both too stubborn for their own good and talking about it makes it real and Newt’s convinced himself he’ll run himself into the ground with anxiety if it’s real, and because playing this stupid game of fleeting touches and lingering looks and shared laughter is more fun when it’s just theirs, like a secret hanging in the air. There aren’t many secrets to keep out here. There aren’t many things that take his mind off of the nightmare of a place he can’t forget he’s stuck in, either. And trying his luck with letting his fingers ghost along Minho’s shoulder when he walks past him at breakfast, well. That does help.
So, Newt can’t think about Minho.
He just focuses on the stupid Doors.
A few of the other boys come up next to him as dawn nears and until the Doors open—most of the Runners are there, Newt thinks, though he hasn’t looked around to check. His eyes hurt from staring at the same place for hours, but he can’t bring himself to care.
The Doors open, and there’s no one there.
Newt doesn’t have time to feel the weight of the whole damn universe crashing on him, though, because the next second he sees Thomas and Minho round a corner ahead, and he’s so relieved he almost thinks he’s going to fall back into the grass. But automatism takes over and he’s walked up to them before he realizes it—it’s the first time he’s moved in hours and his entire body protests, bones creaking and grating like there’s sand stuck between them, and his bad leg screams at him but he’s not listening. He’s not even sure what he tells the two of them, his mind still reeling from the sudden rush of whatever bloody thing his brain’s let wash over him, gathers something about Alby in the vines—please let him be alive—before he sends them both to the Med-jacks. They’re fine. Minho is fine. Right now, he doesn’t even care how any of it happened.
They get Alby down and he’s breathing, and Newt gets guys to carry him to the Med-jacks too—they’re about to be real busy but, that’s their job. He follows suit, makes sure to send everyone to get some breakfast instead of straining their necks staring at the door, and pointedly doesn’t think about that point too hard.
Not like he could if he wanted to, though, because he barely takes a step in the Med-jacks’ domain before they decidedly push him up the stairs and into one of the rooms.
Minho raises an eyebrow at him from where he’s sitting on the bed and rubbing at his leg. “What d’you do while I was gone?” he asks. “They were barely that forceful with me, and I’ve been running all night.”
Newt doesn’t respond, fatigue and relief and fear that’s still slowly trickling out of his system crashing on him all at once, and he barely crosses the three steps from the door to the bed before collapsing face-first on the mattress.
“Hey,” Minho sounds like he’s frowning, and Newt kicks off his shoes as he reaches out behind him to grab onto his wrist—warm, pulse decidedly beating under his fingers. Alive. Here.
“You’re lucky you came back,” he says. “I’d have killed you myself otherwise.”
Minho lets out a tired huff of a laugh at that, and he lies down too. “I know,” he says, voice laced with sleep. “You’re scarier than anything else in here.”
Newt snorts and doesn’t say anything, focuses the little energy he has left to listen to Minho’s breathing. It’s not long until it starts to even out, and Newt squeezes his wrist just slightly, letting himself close his eyes. Minho’s arm twists in his grip, shifts until their palms are pressed together.
“‘m not going anywhere," he mumbles, sounding barely coherent, and Newt wishes he had enough strength to say anything back, I know going unspoken and heavy on his tongue.
He just holds his hand a little tighter instead and lets himself drift off to sleep to the rhythm of the last of his fear draining away at last.
He’s got no idea how much time has passed when he slowly wakes up again—not nearly enough, considering how heavy all his limbs feel—and there’s the touch of a thumb traveling across his knuckles in a mindless, rhythmic motion that would have sent him right back to sleep if he didn’t remember where he was, and why. So he forces an eye open instead and shifts an arm under his chest to push himself up slightly. Part of him hopes he doesn’t have drool on his face, part of him figures it wouldn’t be the first time Minho was there to see it anyways.
“You okay?” he manages, and really there’s no reason that he should be this tired when all he’s done all night was standing in the Glade, not running around the Maze trying not to get killed by monstrous creatures. He tries to will his brain into waking up faster. He wants to ask about what the hell happened last night, but one look at Minho’s exhausted face changes his mind. “Should get more sleep. Nobody’s going to blame you if you sleep in, for once.”
That gets a smirk out of him. Good. Newt should probably get moving though, he thinks distantly. Go check on Alby and make sure the rest of everything is still running as it should, but Minho’s still holding his hand and he finds himself very weak to the touch.
“Thought you said you wanted us to tell you everything?”
Newt schools his expression into as close to severe as he can get, considering he’s lying in bed and pretty sure there’s some dried drool on the side of his face he doesn’t have any free hand to wipe away. “After you got some rest. And I’m declaring this as not enough.”
Minho looks like he’s going to protest so Newt lies down again and twists to turn on his back, the motion pulling Minho closer when they’re still holding hands, until his head is resting against Newt’s shoulder. And well, this is new—he tenses for a second, unsure on where this falls on the list of unspoken fleeting touches they allow themselves, but Minho just sighs and shifts to make himself comfortable, and Newt breathes.
“I would’ve left him,” Minho mumbles and, ah, that’s what it was about. “I did leave him, the Greenie’s the one who got him up in the vines and probably saved his life.”
And Newt, well. Newt’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to that.
“Alby wouldn’t have blamed you,” he settles on. “Won’t. Anyone who’s been in the Maze would do the same thing.”
He means that. Anyone who’d experienced the Maze themselves, or been here long enough to see the state in which they’ve recovered some of their friends’ bodies would’ve bolted to try and save themselves, bone-deep fear winning against any moral code they might have clung to. And, none of them likes to admit it, but they’re all teenagers, and they all spend most of their time stressed out of their minds. He doesn’t remember much from before, but Newt’s pretty certain this isn’t a normal situation for teenagers to find themselves into.
“I know,” Minho says. “I know, it’s just— I didn’t even think about it, it’s like it was the only thing to do. Maybe the Greenie’s got his uses, not knowing how things work and all.”
There’s the shadow of a smirk in his voice, and Newt snorts. “Why’d I bother showing him around, then?”
“He kept crying,” he says. “After… everything, we ended up just lying on the ground trying to breathe. Think he thought I was gonna make fun of him.”
“Did you?” Newt asks, carefully. “Cry, not make fun of him,” he adds when his brain remembers Minho’s really good at playing stupid when he wants to.
And Minho squeezes his hand a little and doesn’t reply, which is enough of an answer already. “I couldn’t stop seeing your face,” he says after a few seconds, a little lower, like an admission he doesn’t really want to make. “Saw you behind the Doors when that stupid kid was running in. Couldn’t stop thinking about how horrified you looked.”
“Yeah well, you try watching three Gladers getting locked in the Maze at night,” Newt snaps, and turns his head to hide in Minho’s hair. “I thought I’d lost you,” he mumbles. “I thought Alby was already good as dead without the Serum and Thomas wouldn’t stand a chance, and you—” He breathes. “I thought I’d lost you,” he says again.
“I kept thinking you must have seen my stupid face at the end, looking all sweaty and tired and scared. And I kept telling myself if I died there that’s all you’d ever remember me like, and that would be unfair and stupid, so I had to make it.”
And it’s so ridiculous, Newt laughs. “I stayed there the whole night because I was sure if I moved even a step before the Doors opened it’d be like giving up, and so you’d all die,” he offers.
It’s Minho laughing now. “That’s why they shoved you in there! I was wondering what that was about,” and he keeps laughing as he seems to melt further into Newt’s side. “Guess it worked, huh?” He mumbles, then. “Look at us.”
And Newt’s not looking, eyes still closed and Minho’s hair tickling his face and warmth warmth warmth against his skin, radiating from his ribs and his palm and coursing through his veins, pulling him towards unconsciousness again. He needs to move.
“You should sleep now,” he says, “if you’re going to get any more rest before we’ve got to drag you back and ask you a thousand questions.”
He shifts slowly, getting Minho’s weight off him so he can slide out of bed, but Minho just reaffirms his hold on his hand. “Where you going?”
“See Alby, check on the others, all that stuff. Some of us have jobs to do, you know.”
“‘m sure they can do without you for another hour or two. You need sleep as much as I do,” Newt goes to argue but Minho beats him to it, “and honestly you being here is the only thing that’s convincing me I’m not still out there.”
And, well. Newt’s got nothing to say to that. “Could’ve just said that,” he mumbles, and lets Minho pull him back in.
“See, you’re working,” he gets out in a yawn, hooking an arm over Newt’s shoulder. “Would’ve had to bother the Med-jacks otherwise. ‘m sure they’re grateful.”
“Shut up and sleep before I change my mind.”
Minho huffs out a laugh as he pushes his face against his neck, breath ghosting along his collarbone sending a shiver down his spine.
“I’ll go see Alby with you,” he murmurs. “Man, I’m really glad we made it.”
“Me too,” Newt whispers, eyes closed. “Me too.”
Minho’s heart beats steadily where he’s pressed against Newt’s ribs, each of them a reassurance—alive, alive, alive—, echoing his own. And when unconsciousness comes to claim him again, just for a little while, he lets it.