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It is hard not to cry in the mornings.
Gally awakens with a headache and agape mouth as he searches for oxygen. The mattress is firm underneath him, but not as much as the arms eloped around his figure.
He coughs, splutters, groans. Light from the window is piercing on his eyes.
The arm on his front tightens briefly before relaxing, bare skin brushing his own. Gally is not scared. It's taken a lot of time to reach this point, but he has made it successfully.
He remembers when sharing a bed alone terrified him for reasons he refuses to explain, yet now it sometimes helps him. Sometimes.
Taking deep breaths, in and out, Gally pulls Minho closer to him — hearing the guy hum in protest — and holds him tightly, wanting to bury away his fears in Minho's head of hair. "What's wrong?" Minho's voice is deep, laced by tiredness.
Gally doesn't answer, breathing into Minho's neck and keeping both his arms and legs iron locked around him.
Minho pushes away stiffly, sitting up the best he can just so he can look at Gally's face, damp with tears. Gally meets Minho's eyes as they squint at him, "Gally?" he frowns sternly, "Are you okay? Well, I know you're not. What's the problem?"
"Nothing."
One day. Minho understands what Gally means. Not today, but I will tell you one day.
"If you're sure." Minho settles back down, laying his head on Gally's arm.
Gally smiles softly, closing his eyes and crushing Minho — who groans at him — back into another embrace, "I'm sure."
"Okay." Minho lifts his chin, "Hey."
After a pause, Gally opens one eye.
Minho smiles, then manoeuvring his head, kisses him softly on the lips. Gally's mouth quirks upwards, and he presses himself against Minho contentedly, soaking up Minho's warmth.
The ex-Runner laughs, lips moving away and instead trailing down Gally's chin and jaw, and Gally lets him, still sleepy.
It isn't until all of the sensations come to him, that his heart slows. Minho's mouth on his neck, hands on his hips and breath heavy on his skin. He hisses as if pain has struck him, then his sight leaves, panic taking over.
Hands clawing wherever he can grip them, Gally shoves everything that is touching him away and gasps, shaking his head from side to side. Something calls his name, but it is warped and twisted cruelly, until it is unrecognisable to his ears.
The old shop fronts are as dead as winter trees. Neon signs that no longer glow, tattered banners and posters torn by time are paired with the merciless darkness of life after dark. Gally holds his breath, walking along the open corridor. Scattered leaves lay all over the ground at his feet.
His boots creak, yet there is no other noise. Not even the scuffle of a rat or the breaths of others hanging around.
A single light ices the dusty concrete floor — blue moonlight, he guesses — guiding him along like a signpost. He turns and, somehow, ends up in his room, the mattress and rotting bed frame level with his knees.
He shouldn't have left this place so late, as it is sometimes his only sanctuary in this hell people call the Outskirts. Heart going erratic, he tries to calm himself, for he is no longer disobeying any rules. He is as safe as he can get now.
Gally wonders what he thought he might achieve by leaving his room when he isn't supposed to. All he went and did was spend an hour squinting at the blackboard in Lawrence's office. What, and how?
He couldn't make sense of the small, chalky writing smeared over it, negotiating pricing.
But it makes sense now, as he faces the barred window, always letting a draft in. Pricing.
In the dark, he wipes his nose across his sleeve, eyes foggy.
It's much too late to put up a fight now.
There's someone outside, waiting by the gate.
His breathing hitches, but his prayers won't carry him far. They never have before. Does that mean his hands won't press together and shake in shame nonetheless? No.
Lawrence's voice is already booming between his ears, laughing with the new customer. Gally presses his hands over his eyes and digs his palms into his sockets, wanting so desperately to wake up from this nightmare.
Going on six months. He has been receiving punishment for almost six months.
Oh, how he longs to reach out and touch the Glade again. Can't they see — whoever is in charge of his fate — that he feels as guilty for Chuck as anyone? If not more?
Yes he deserves woe for all he has done but he never imagined it to be anything this cruel, night after night.
"Kid? I know you're awake in there." A shout from beyond the door, "Come say hello."
Gally clenches his jaw. Lawrence promised — swore on a life — that he would stop this trade. That it would end, once he joined the army. Lies. Always a lie from those nasty lips.
He wants to stand up against him, but the time is not now as the door bursts open, revealing two slimy figures, baring wonky, stained sets of teeth as smiles, both cold and devoid of true happiness.
He is sat up.
Something lightly brushes his back, up and down, up and down, up and down.
Gally sniffles, body feeling both tense and numb simultaneously. His shoulders shake a final few times before he sinks forwards in exhaustion.
"Gally."
His name.
Eyes lifting, Gally sinks backwards into Minho's touch, lolling his head up to look at the guy. Minho's eyes crease, but the rest of his face stays relatively concerned, "It's alright, man. I lost you for a minute there."
"Sorry, Mín." Gally feels his fingers tingling, still partly numb, "I didn't mean to."
"Don't apologise, I know." Minho backs away, taking his touch with him, then he comes back into Gally's view with a blanket and lays it over his shoulders before sitting down next to him.
On the floor of his bedroom, Gally lays his neck to the side and rests his head on top of Minho's, making Minho smile. It is good, Gally thinks, to know that someone is patient.