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The abandoned church echoes every wayward breath, and screams in rickety agony whenever there’s a gust of wind. It’s not exactly comfortable, drafty and cold and dusty and miserable, but it’s the most real place Gally’s felt he’s spent time within in ages.
What hasn't changed is that he is alone.
He’s given space to himself. It does not surprise him; it’s not a luxury given to him because the team is trying to be nice. It’s to keep him separate. Other. He supposes he is, now more than ever.
The Gladers who have survived grew together, and he has grown apart. Thomas and his crew — mostly boys he once knew better than himself and a girl as spitfire as Thomas is curious — are almost foreign to him. Who is left Gally can barely recognize away from the Glade. They’re callused. Frypan’s despondent, Newt is angry. And Thomas —
Well, Thomas is still trying. Can’t fault him for that.
Gally’s getting ready to sleep. He slips off his sweatshirt and makes it into a pillow. Runs his hands up his scarred arms, wounds that tell a story of survival that he doesn’t want to speak to himself. Gally’s body aches, but that isn’t anything new. He gets on his knees, cracked cement of his joints protesting at the unforgiving floor beneath him. He’s about to lay down when,
Knock knock.
Gally stiffens. Reaches to his ankle for his knife when he remembers that killers don’t announce themselves. It's just that no one’s called upon him in a long, long time.
“I’m awake,” he says.
When Thomas slips inside, Gally can't help but think that perhaps he should have gotten his knife in hand.
It catches Gally off guard how Thomas has grown. No longer the lanky shank who showed up in the box, the curious boy with the grass-stained knees, the greasy hair, the buzzard eyes. Gally would detail all the different ways he’s changed, but most of all, he looks exhausted.
Gally doesn’t need his knife. A strong breeze would tip Thomas over.
“You need something?”
Thomas crosses his arms, tucks his hands into his armpits. He steps forward, pressing up against that invisible line of Gally’s personal space.
“Been thinking.” Thomas inhales deep. Gally expects him to say something along the lines of “thanks but no thanks on the offer of help, we don’t need you, I think it’d be best for everyone if you were gone in the morning.”
Instead he says, “Why were you with Lawrence? He seems... not right.”
Gally flinches. Lawrence is sick and he’s angry because of it, a kind of anger that Gally recognizes — and if he’s being honest — fears. Though unlike Gally’s rage, Lawrence isn’t at fault for his situation. He’s sick and becoming more and more vile by the minute due to the illness. Yes, his speeches are starting to ramp up into more like manifestos and something turns over uncomfortably in Gally’s chest every time he draws up plans, but Gally doesn’t want to disregard him entirely.
Thomas continues. “And he didn't have faith in you. Why are you following him?”
“He saved my life.”
Thomas frowns. “Doesn’t mean he deserves your unending loyalty.”
Gally scoffs. Tired of this conversation, tired of Thomas’s implications, tired of not knowing where this was going. “Thought my unending loyalty was a punishment, Greenie.”
“I never said that.”
“Then maybe just my presence is.”
Thomas’s mouth skews, his expression a mirror of Gally’s sharp tone. He steps closer and Gally rears back. “What do you want, Thomas?”
“I want you to follow me.”
Gally jerks, furious. “What have you asked me to do that I haven’t done?” he snaps, expecting Thomas to meet him with a series of accusations that will have Gally walking out himself.
Except Thomas is raising his hands up. “No, Gally, that’s not —”
I’m not trying to scare you, you’re already scared —
Gally knows this face. Knows what he’s asking. The flame that had sparked in Gally’s chest is splashed with cold water, doused and chilling him. He rubs the bruise that lines his jaw of where Thomas had socked him on sight.
He had deserved it. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Opening his mouth, he’s about to voice “I don’t understand,” when he thinks better of it. His fingertips touch the swelling bruise on his jaw, the shape of Thomas's fist. “Thought that offer was off the table.”
Thomas winces, shakes his head. “It’s not, Gally, I…” His mouth quivers. “You’ve changed. You look… different. You are different. Makes it harder to pin everything on you.”
The way he says it, there’s a sentiment there that makes Gally squeamish. His gaze follows where Thomas's lingered, and he had forgotten he’d taken off his sweatshirt, the scars up his arms. As if he can hide what's already been shown, his hands rub up the length of his marred arms and he turns away.
“I don’t want your shucking pity.” He’s about to get up and leave when Thomas grabs his wrist, bringing everything to a halt.
“It’s not pity, it’s…” Thomas squeezes Gally’s wrist, clinging. “You’ve changed, Gally. That's why I wanted to be clear, that, the offer is still very much on the table. That’s all I’m getting at.”
Seems like more than that, but Gally has learned to let things lie. “So have you,” Gally remarks. He pulls his hand out of Thomas’s grip and rubs his thumb over the thin skin of the inside of his wrist. It’s all too vulnerable, Gally can hardly stand it.
Looking to Thomas, he tries to lighten the mood. “You wear gel in your hair now.”
Thomas snorts. “Was told no one would listen to a greasy shank.”
“Minho?”
“Yeah.”
Thomas’s gaze becomes shadowy, grim in the wake of Minho's absence.
“We’ll get him back," Gally says.
The assurance catches Thomas's attention. He smiles as if he believes Gally, and then his expression crumbles. “Like I was saying, between the two of us…” this time Gally remembers the way it felt to be inspected by Thomas, understands when his gaze is sketching him up and down. “You’ve changed more.”
Gally leans back on his haunches, needing to get off the floor. He shifts to a pew, pats the spot next to him. Thomas moves with him, and they're closer than Gally expected.
“I had more lessons to learn,” Gally says, the words coming out so raw he swears he can taste the blood in his mouth. “Growth must be pretty painless when you’re always right.”
Thomas laughs once, hysteric. He puts his head in his hands. “I’m not. Always right, I’m not always right. I’m falling without a parachute and the ground is coming up fast.”
Gally’s heart pinches. Thomas came to him for… a pep talk? Reassurance?
Then it dawns on Gally what Thomas is getting at. Gally’s eyebrows rise up, and his gaze slips to outside the door. As far as everyone else knows, Thomas is as steadfast and enigmatic and intelligent as ever. They have their suspicions that Thomas isn't as confident as he claims, but he's diving in anyway because that's what he always does. Because that's what Thomas feels he needs to show.
“They don’t see that.”
“No, they don’t.” They can’t goes unsaid but is twice as loud.
The idea of what Thomas has come here for is a lit match trying to light a wet pyre. Gally knows he should be angry at the implication, but instead, he’s just tired.
“And you’re what? Looking for someone to agree with your worst thoughts about yourself? Here we were just talking about how we’ve changed.”
Thomas laughs, which somehow makes Gally laugh, too. “I just want to know what you see, Gally.” Thomas rubs his red eyes, swipes his hand over his mouth. “You always saw other avenues, other things I wasn’t seeing. Just want to know if there’s things you think I should do differently.”
Thomas has changed. A lot. Wanting to hear other opinions, no longer so dead-set on one goal he can’t take time for outside influences, no longer deciding that there’s no time. Now he’s making it.
Gally could take him up on this. Point out potential flaws in their plans. Talk about probabilities and obstacles. None of what he has to say, though, would be anything new. It would just be from Gally, from an old something-like-enemy, and be available for Thomas to accept or deny, which could send him into a frenzy or pit him in righteous indignation.
That road, though, doesn’t give Thomas any credit. Doesn’t do anything but put them backwards and frost them with fears.
Thomas has grown. Is sharper in features, maturity broadening his shoulders, which is good for all the weight he carries. He’s less antsy, now drives all those jitters into action. He’s still bold, but not as chaotic. The roots of him are still the same, but his friends have brought him a long way.
Gally reaches over and grabs Thomas’s chin.
“What I’d do differently, Thomas,” he says, and he can feel the slight tremor in Thomas’s jaw as he speaks, getting worse at the thought of Gally’s impending condemnation. “Is I’d let myself get some sleep. You need to rest.”
Thomas’s mouth quivers. When Gally doesn’t say anymore, Thomas grabs Gally’s hand and pulls it away, but again doesn’t let go. Gally hasn’t been touched like this in ages, and he has a feeling Thomas hasn’t let himself hold onto anyone in some time either. No weakness. “That can’t be all,” he protests.
“Everything else can wait.” Gally folds his hand with Thomas’s, squeezes.
Thomas’s eyes are glassy, sleep fluttering his gaze, his eyelashes wet. “Yeah.” He rears back, shoves the heel of his hand into his eyes, smears the tears to his temple. “You’re right. You’re right.”
He twitches, his muscles jerking as he moves to get up. Yet he doesn’t rise. He remains on the pew.
When Gally puts his hand on Thomas’s nape, Thomas breathes out an exhale that makes all the bones in his ribcage creak. The rail tracks of his spine finally give, he lets himself bend. When he inhales, Gally can feel the knot in his throat and so he presses a little firmer, and Gally swears he can feel the sand drain out of Thomas’s skull as he dissolves. He presses his thumb down his back, swirling around his rigid shoulder blades, feeling the air whirl around his lungs.
Gally doesn’t watch Thomas cry. Keeps his gaze trained on the far wall, and waits for Thomas to come back to himself.
Then Thomas croaks, “I’m okay. I’m — I’m alright.”
“You’re alright,” Gally agrees.
Thomas swallows the lump in his throat. He’s less weighted. He’s more jittery, but in some ways, Gally missed that unrefined energy to him. Made Thomas real, instead of this ‘fearless leader’ he’s pretending to be. Thomas cracks his knuckles, grinds his molars, but when he looks at Gally — well it’s not a smile, but it’s something close.
“Thanks.”
Gally doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to be thanked, and no one else ever has to know.
“I’ll let you get your rest, now,” Thomas says. Rising onto his feet, Thomas stands tall.
“We’ll get him back,” Thomas says. “We’ll do this right.”
Gally nods.
“You just lead the way.”