Archive of Our Own

There's something different about how the rain falls here. Better. Newt knows that this is impossible, that the rain that falls outside now is much the same as the rain that soaked him and his fellow Gladers back in the maze, but this rain, these drops that fall heavily on the white sand beach of the island, that's what seems to calm the thunderstorms that have been raging inside his chest for as long as he can remember.

Whether it's a figment of his own imagination or not, he can't bring himself to care, most days. It's been six months since they arrived in Safe Haven, and he tries, day by day, to care less and feel more and remember what breathing feels like. Some days, he wonders if that's the sort of thing you can forget, or if it stays somewhere deep in one's subconscious.

Forever. Like riding a bike, he imagines. Not that he knows what that feels like, riding a bike, not that he remembers. It's one of those things he could spend days doing here, wondering if WCKD was capable of wiping such simple, mundane things from his brain, if he could get on a bike tomorrow and do something he doesn't remember learning in the first place.

And it still stays with him, as hard as he's tried to push it out. WCKD lingers somewhere within his subconscious, lingers like ghosts wandering in the night, lingers on days like today, most of all.

Newt hasn't been ill in a long time. And he sees it, the fear in Thomas and Minho's eyes when he passed out at the bonfire last week, so he forces them not to worry, forces himself to worry all on his own. And believing that this rainfall might have something to do with the coughing fits, the pain traveling through his veins for the past few days finally subsiding, as illogical as it may sound, he holds onto it.

Newt wonders for days on end, if this constant state of uncertainty will ever end. He wonders if he will ever know days without it.

Wondering doesn't do much good for anyone, but the smell of the rain makes it easier to ignore, just for a moment. Barely a moment passes by where the island isn't full of life, but it's a particularly thick rainfall that's forced everyone to seek shelter for the day. This is why Newt's surprised when he hears a couple of knocks on the door, and when he opens it to find Frypan standing there with this week's deliveries, positively drenched.

"Are you out of your mind?" he asks him as he urges him inside, "What are you doing out there?"

"Brenda's helping Jorge and Vince, they needed some extra hands to cover all the unfinished houses," Fry explains, "And I wasn't doing anything, so."

Newt shakes his head with a smile, accepting the basket gratefully, nonetheless. "Delivery could've waited. You shouldn't have to run around in this weather."

The other boy shrugs it off. "I like the rain."

"Me too," he chuckles, "Well, at least let me fix you some tea before you go."

"I'd like that," Fry agrees, leaving his jacket by the window, "Are Minho and Thomas not in?"

Newt refuses the boy's hands reaching out to help him carry the produce, and he nods in the direction of the bed in lieu of a response, as they pad their way to the kitchen.

The existence of rooms in these huts are more of a suggestion than anything else, separated by curtains or screens, and although he knows Gally has big plans to expand to more permanent constructions, Newt doesn't particularly mind.

He knows the other residents have worked out solutions to this, but the three of them are just fine with the screen for the bathroom, and besides, they're not exactly unfamiliar with the lack of privacy. They barely had that luxury back in the Glade, made their own illusions of it, and had to grow accustomed to it, out of pure necessity.

Even if he hadn't become as comfortable with it as he is, Thomas and Minho aren't the other Gladers. Newt finds space and privacy entirely redundant with them. Even if he can't entirely explain as to why that is, he knows they all feel the same.

And, maybe, it's better this way. Maybe it helps put his mind at ease, keeping an eye on them, makes him breathe a little easier, when everything starts to get stuffy, fuzzy, too much. Maybe he still feels like he's trying to learn how to breathe again, every time he wakes up and every time he goes to sleep, but this, it makes a difference.

"Had to force the bloody shanks to take a nap," he lowers his voice near a whisper, casting another glance towards to the boys currently occupying the bed, just to check, "Their nightmares have been particularly bad the last few days. Well, Min is never admitting to it, so don't tell him I said that. I suspect they try to hide it from me. How it drains them."

Fry nods in understanding, following him with careful steps, and his eyes find the sleeping forms of their friends, too, while Newt puts the water to boil. "Brenda refuses to talk about it. We all cope in different ways, I guess. We're all getting by."

"We are," he muses.

He checks the bed again, as he's already lost track of how many times he's done it already, and finds that they still haven't stirred, for now. Newt can't help the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth as he looks at them, not really, making sure to watch their chests move, make sure that they're still breathing.

He hopes their slumber is as peaceful as it looks, lying as close as possible and the pillows abandoned on the floor at some point, despite their bed being bigger than anything they would've dared to wish for, way back then. Minho's practically got his entire body wrapped around the other boy, arms on his waist and chin resting on top of Thomas' head. You really wouldn't know it was him if it wasn't for the tufts of brown curls sticking out, because the boy's face is entirely hidden from view, tucked in against Minho's chest.

This has become a habit the three of them share, too, staying within reach. Never quite separating in the first place. It feels better. They'd been talking plenty about building two more beds, but the words never amounted to action. Plenty of talking, but Newt's got a secret hope of keeping it this way.

Sharing one bed between them was a crammed mess on the very first night in Safe Haven, but the first night was also the first night of nightmares, the first night where rain and thunder and the roaring of the sea couldn't touch the, the first night where the nightmares were nightmares, really. Nothing more. There's a clearness to all of his nightmares that wasn't there before, where the whole world is pulsing and throbbing and folding into itself, methodically tearing its creases up until it can swallow him whole.

He doesn't know if it's the Flare, doing all that. If there's roots of it still hooking into his flesh while he's sleeping, if that's the only place it can reach him now, tangling the threads between reality and memory until he can't find beginning or ending or the in between. He doesn't know.

As real as it felt, though, Newt had woken up to his first morning in Safe Haven with Minho pressed against his back and Thomas pressed into his chest, their breaths mingled warm against his skin, and he knew the nightmares were all fake, then. That was a good day. He hopes today will be a good day, too.

They haven't stopped visiting them yet. They probably never will. The nights without them are getting longer, though, so holding onto them is all that matters.

Newt pauses his dwelling to hand Fry his tea, and they let the comfort of the silence settle between them, whispering back and forth about the life they're all currently building for themselves, day by day.

It's nice. It's a home, and few of them have the memory of any home like this, one with a safety that suddenly feels a lot more permanent. Newt's never allowed himself any optimism in his life, but he's been thinking about it, lately. Maybe he'd like to try it out.

When he walks his friend out the door again, once the rain has stilled to a lazy dripping, Fry surprises him. "You know, I was always rooting for you guys. Was always wondering," he tells him with an amused smile on his face, "And you probably want your privacy, I get it, but come eat with us once in a while, yeah? We miss you."

All he can think of giving him in response is a sheepish nod. Newt admittedly hadn't really given much thought to just how much the three of them had been keeping to themselves, because he was busy, he's still busy, trying to make sure all of this is still real. That it's not just another nightmare he'll wake up from, that he's still breathing, that all of them got a new chance to live, where so many of their friends did not.

It's the other thing that he picks up on, though, that's the one that's rendering him more confused than anything else. He feels like there's something he might missing entirely in this conversation. Fry doesn't elaborate on what he means by wondering, and Newt doesn't want to keep him, not that it's mostly dry outside again, so he decides to keep this one to ruminate on to himself.

"We will," he smiles in return, and he means it, "I promise."

"Good that," Fry agrees, and he squeezes his arm before shutting the door behind him, leaving Newt alone in the quiet again.

Well, almost alone. He gets to work of putting the fresh produce away and checking on the plants, to make sure they're not drowning in all that rain they've been drinking all day, but no, they're quite splendid, so happy he could almost imagine them smiling back at him. The thought is interrupted soon enough, as a low murmur and rustling sounding from the bed catches his attention.

When he turns around, Minho's blinking up at him, eyes glazed over like he's not returned to reality just yet. He can tell he's trying to keep his lazy movements to a minimum, but Thomas is unbothered and still sleeping like a rock, clinging onto his middle as if he's about to grow permanently into the other boy's side. Newt's been keeping a tally on times he's quietly wished for things they didn't have, and this is one of those important times where he'd liked to have a camera available.

He'll settle on remembering it, instead, how real it is. Minho's stretching out an arm in his direction, and his voice is raspy when he gets the half-sleepy words over his lips.

"Blondie," he mumbles, "Come here."

Newt can't help but chuckle, putting his perplexity over Fry's words behind him, for now, in favor of crawling under the covers behind Minho, hooking his chin on his shoulder. He can hear Thomas' muffled snoring and the steady beating of Minho's heart, so he breathes, and it still stays all real.

"Nightmare again?" he asks, even though he knows the boy won't give him the truth, stubborn as he is.

"I don't have nightmares," Minho mutters in an obvious lie, pulling Newt closer, "Shouldn't strain yourself when you're sick. Can't protect you when you're all the way over there."

He chuckles again, grinning into Minho's skin, but the other boy is clearly not awake enough to pretend to be offended by his reaction. He recognizes that thought, though, that feeling. Someone's got to have their guard up so everyone else can let their guard down. They're living and learning a little every day, so maybe, one day, they'll all put their guard down for once, one day it will all seem far enough away that they can manage it.

"Go back to sleep," Newt tells him, "I'll hold down the fort while you do."

Minho grumbles some unintelligible words, which is probably his sleep induced way of protesting, but he complies, nonetheless, letting his slumber pull him right back. The nightmares don't visit them again that night, and even though Newt knows they'll come back, eventually, he'll take it as a good sign. They've never had a lot of those.

☀︎

The sun is at its highest in the sky, higher than its ever been, he'd guess, pouring its warm rays over the safe haven and prickling at Thomas' neck by the time he finds Teresa sitting at their favorite spot by the beach. It was only half an hour ago since he checked for any sight of her here and she was nowhere to be found, but he'd been looking for her for a while, a longer while than he probably should have been running around with his skin bare and unprotected.

He can just hear Newt softly scolding him in the back of his mind, see him rolling his eyes at him without missing a beat. He can just hear Minho's warm laugh ringing in his ears, see him fall back and clutching his stomach at the sight of Thomas' poor sunburn.

Last time he made this mistake, his face stung for a week, redder than Fry's best and freshest strawberry jam. The kids still call him tomato head. It was very embarrassing.

It became a little less embarrassing when it was just Minho and Newt, though, when they were forcing water in him until he nearly choked and talked him into putting on the concoction that Gally liked to call sunscreen, despite his adamant protests. There was no mocking then, not really, because it was Minho and Newt, who had concern set deep every crevice of their faces, who looked terrified when he almost passed out, and he can't stand seeing them like that again.

Gally didn't make sunscreen. Whatever it is, it smells disgusting and it's too runny and he hates it, but he put it on, anyway. He'd like for none of them to be scared ever again, so he did it, but he can't imagine they won't give him a hard time, later, since he's only just thinking about how he probably should've taken some with him hours ago.

He'll suffer the consequences of his own inaction when he gets to it, though, because he'd been thinking about Teresa. Teresa, who's still keeping to herself after six months in Safe Haven, who's been watching everyone else from a distance at bonfire night, who keeps quiet, and it scares him. He doesn't blame her, but it scares him, nonetheless, that her guards are still up, that they seem to grow taller than the walls of the maze ever were.

He's been trying to find a moment to sit down and talk with her, or just listen to the ocean, maybe, not talk at all. Thomas really isn't a great talker. Still, he'd like to try, and he'd like this to be a home for her, too.

He'd like for her to have somewhere she belongs, even though it's still taken him six months to even come close to feeling any sort of comfort in that. For Teresa, he imagines, it must feel like forever. It must feel impossible.

She doesn't acknowledge him when he sits down next to her in the sand, and he doesn't say anything, either, because he follows her gaze and smiles, at Teresa and at the girl who's got her eyes glued to her every move. This is the other thing Thomas would like to talk to her about, if he knew what a conversation like that sounded like.

Every day, he wakes up, reality still sinking in ever so slowly. They're safe. They eat without worrying about who or how many will be absent from the table the next day, they stopped running a long time ago and spend their time building a new life, instead, and when they don't, they laugh or sleep or do nothing at all. They've never had time for any of that. Now, it seems like they've got all the time in the world.

Teresa spends so very many of her days watching Brenda. Talking to Brenda. Following Brenda. Smiling at Brenda, although she only dares do that when the other girl isn't looking.

That's another thing they didn't have time for, not really. Thomas doesn't know how Newt and Minho lived through two years in the Glade with holding their emotions inside, holding on despite the size of them and the weight of them and not choking on them. Then again, maybe they're just really good at faking it, too good for Thomas to even notice.

Thomas has been carrying his feelings like a burden, in all of the moments and memories he can access. It almost comes naturally to him, as if he'd never been doing anything else, and he's trying to lift it off, he swears by it, but six months have passed him by in the blink of an eye, and he knows he still isn't good at it. Feeling.

"You should tell her," he speaks up.

There's a hardness painted on Teresa's features as she clenches her jaw, and her fingers are absentmindedly drawing patterns in the sand beneath them while she considers Thomas' advice.

He knows he sounds like a hypocrite, and that he's not exactly the top priority anyone here would come to for advice, given that his usual approach to any problems have been to run straight at them and deal with the consequences later. In his defense, it got them here. There's a reckoning he's still doing every day and yet still going back to square one every time, trying to live with the ghosts of all of their friends that didn't make it this far, the ones who didn't even make it past the Glade.

Thomas isn't a savior and he never will be, so he needs to remember them, no matter how many years pass. He's working on it. Remembering them beyond all the nightmares, remember the good times, the way more important times.

"Tell her what?" the girl finally replies in a lie that they both can spot from a mile away, so he doesn't roll his eyes, just smiles a bit wider, nudging her arm until she gives in with a tiny, barely there smile of her own.

"You know what I'm talking about," he reminds her.

Teresa sighs. "Unfortunately, I do."

The quiet falls upon them again as they watch Brenda, who's moving her arms animatedly, clearly engrossed in a passionate discussion about something with Gally, Sonya and Vince. Thomas is sure Gally's probably in the wrong about whatever it is, because it's Gally, and judging by how Sonya and Vince are clearly on her side, he'd say he guessed right.

"I'm not sure she'd wanna hear it," the girl next to him eventually says in a mutter, "Maybe it's one of those things. Something that's just better left kept to myself."

He can't say he doesn't understand it. Sometimes he gets this feeling that everyone else knows how to talk about how they feel and know the right words and know how to hold them, and he was just the only one who didn't get that memo.

This feels different. The Teresa and Brenda thing, that is. The thing where Brenda comes to him pretty much only looking for Teresa or asking about Teresa, the thing where

"She likes you," Thomas blurts out, "I mean, I think so. I think there's something about you no one else has. You know?"

She lifts an amused eyebrow at him, and he laughs sheepishly to himself, not sure he totally understands what he means by it, either. He knows he believes it, this connection they have. He's not exactly an expert on love, but the way they look at each other just looks different than everyone else, and he thinks that's evidence enough.

"Maybe," she says, "I just can't do this like you did, Tom. I'm not brave like you about these things. It's… I don't know. I feel too much, all at the same time."

Thomas nods. He understands that better than he can probably explain out loud. He understands. Still, he frowns, her sentence is throwing him off his orbit entirely.

"I'm not the only one who's made sacrifices. You were ready to die to get everyone here," he reminds her, "I think that makes you pretty shucking brave."

The girl huffs. Her eyes are still on Brenda's neck, her smile grown ever so slightly as the ocean breeze ripples over them. "That's different, and you know it."

Thomas isn't sure he does know it. Whatever it is. Actually, honestly, he kind of has no idea what she's talking about, but this also isn't about him in the first place, so he'd rather not pretend like he understands for any longer than absolutely necessary. He wonders if this is also one of those kinds of things that should be left unsaid, just like she said, so, maybe, he shuts his mouth again, and he doesn't ask.

He doesn't get the time for it, either way, because Brenda spots them not longer after, and so she promptly ignores whatever it is Gally's talking about in favor of walking up to them, every feature on her face lighting up, like she's challenging the sun itself. Brenda likes a challenge, he wouldn't put it past her.

"Hey," she says, and it's only directed at Teresa, obviously it is, and Thomas can't help but laugh at the look on her face, the sheer confusion, as if Brenda had never talked to her before, as if she'd ever wanna do anything else, "Come with me to the bonfire tonight?"

"Oh," the girl replies, almost surprised, "Sure. I mean, if you want."

"I do," Brenda grins, "You should sit with me."

"Oh," Teresa repeats, "I'm not sure if… Okay. Yes, okay."

"Okay," the other girl confirms lowly, "See you soon."

"Yeah."

"See you, Bren!" Thomas calls out as Brenda walks away, just because he feels like being annoying, and he gets exactly what he wants, a raised middle finger and an eye roll for his efforts. He earns himself an elbow to his side from Teresa, too, but she looks excited. Genuinely, thoroughly excited at the prospect of the promise of sitting next to Brenda, so excited she seems to forget about being nervous, and that only makes him smile wider.

Just small steps. Baby steps, even, is what they're all taking, one every day, building their safety up from scratch. He hopes it'll feel easier, eventually.

Thomas has never missed bonfire night, not until today, but his skin's burning up and his face has started feeling numb, which probably isn't a good sign, so he opts to return to the cabin instead. He can't imagine he looks much better, if the way Newt widens his eyes at the sight of him the moment he walks in.

"Hi," he says, "Is it really bad?"

"Oh, Tommy," is all Newt replies, pointing him to the bed with the most disappointed tone in his voice he's ever heard, "Have I ever told you about how you're the biggest shucking idiot I've ever met?"

"Once or twice," he nods, and it hurts, but he leans into the other boy's light touch to his burnt cheeks without even thinking twice about it, gentle hands examining his damage. He suddenly doesn't feel all that embarrassed anymore.

"Great," Newt says dryly, "Can you please try not to get yourself killed? Just for a day?"

"A little sun won't kill me," he argues, because he still hates it, hates when he worries Newt and Minho without even meaning to, "I didn't make it this far just for the sun to take me out."

"Then be more careful, you shank," the boy scolds him, replacing his hand with a wet cloth to his skin and that disgusting excuse for sunscreen already found.

Thomas agrees. Minho doesn't laugh at him this time around, no, the pure shock in his face when he shakes his head at him is even more concerning, and he apologizes to them a million times, but they just shush him, they help him with his clothes and a shower, because it's not exactly the first time any of them have seen each other naked. And, okay, maybe he argues with them because he likes being difficult, and they boss him around, but he's pretty sure this is his favorite part of the day, anyways.

This is his favorite part of, well, any day, really. He finds he's not that upset about missing the bonfire, and the thought strikes him while the cold water is running over his limbs, that Minho and Newt didn't go to the bonfire, either.

Maybe they didn't go because of him. Or maybe they just didn't feel like it. He really, really hopes it's because of him, though, for some reason, because it makes him feel warm again, a warmth entirely unrelated to his skin's current well-being.

They help him out with the sunscreen, too, eventually, and to lie down in a way where he can ignore the pain. Mostly. He thinks about it less when he's in the middle with Minho's back against his chest and Newt's chest against his own, and he breathes out in relief, listening to the faint laughter from their friends in the distance, holding it ever closer like a cherished, decades old lullaby.

"Does this hurt?" Newt whispers from behind him, an arm tentatively wrapping around his waist, so Thomas pulls him closer in encouragement. Pain be damned, because it's been six months, and the nights he can't sleep are always the ones where he's slept alone or woken up alone, so he pretty much needs to avoid that at all costs.

"Only a little."

"You're so stupid," Minho sighs as he twists around in his arms.

"I know," Thomas says, and the boys laugh quietly, now, for the first time all evening, a low, familiar sound that makes his throat go dry.

Thomas can't sleep unless they're close to him, this is the only conclusion he can draw, so he holds them tighter and tangles their legs together, making sure it'll take them a long, long time to leave in the morning. Maybe they'll just never leave again. That sounds fantastic, actually.

"Stop being stupid," Minho tells him in a half-hearted order, not bothering to open his eyes, just inches closer to them until they might as well all be breathing through the same pair of lungs. Newt hums in eager agreement.

☀︎

There's a storm coming. You wouldn't know it from the sight of the beach, the kids playing tag under the late afternoon sun, the groups carrying supplies through the sand, unbothered by the wind clawing at their skin, but Minho can feel it under his skin, too, rising somewhere over the horizon, waiting like the skilled predator it is for its moment to pounce and take over the sky in a matter of minutes. Seconds, maybe.

He knows it. He's been watching the cluster of gray clouds floating over the ocean for the better part of an hour now, and he can't fathom why everyone else can be so infuriatingly calm about it.

He can't fathom why Gally chose this time, most of all, to be working on the reinforcements for the cabins, but the shank's never been one to listen to anyone else for an opinion or advice of any kind. They should've had them done weeks ago. Yet, here Minho is, feeling the sweat running down his back and mussing up his hair, and feeling the storm sneaking in on him terrifying, feather light steps.

Minho's spent all his life running, though, the parts and days he can remember, and he's not about to run now. The time for running has been over for six months, so he keeps an eyes on the sky, and he forces himself to remember. Remember every time he's turned his back like a coward, remember that this is the only way there is for him to make sure the safe haven won't crumble and disappear right in front of him, that it won't end up as yet another temporary, false illusion of peace.

He won't give up on the illusion, anyways, not yet. He's been running for far too long. They all have. And if this illusion gets shattered, the deaths of every one of their friends they couldn't save will have been for nothing. Minho doesn't know if he'd be able to live with that.

This is why he's got to look the cold and hard truths dead in the eye, watch the eye of the storm when he should be chopping the wood they have left and carry the supplies inside and tell Gally to get off his shucking back for once in his life. And get rid of this ache that's drilling behind his eyelids and threatening to split his skull wide open.

Minho hasn't slept for three days. He's tried not to. He can't sleep, because he's felt the storm coming for three days and two nights, and it's made his blood run cold in the middle of their first summer in Safe Haven.

He hasn't told anyone about it, there's certainly no way he'll tell Thomas and Newt about any of that, because safe haven is supposed to be better for them. For all of them. He's been watching them while they sleep for three days and for many other days before that, because he can see them, feel them drifting away so easily when he's asleep, and he hasn't figured out how to stop it yet, how to make sure the storm doesn't come for them and takes them away in the blink of an eye.

They've been doing better. Minho tries to do better. He's still watching the sky for yet another day, and he should've told them to stay inside today, begged them to, and it's a bitter realization done far too late, because if something happened to them while he's not there, then…

Newt and Thomas can take care of themselves. He knows as much, because they've reminded him far too many times to count just on two hands alone, but it's the only thing he can do. Minho's been too close to losing them far too many times, and he can't imagine Safe Haven feeling just the same without them. Can't imagine their cabin and the sand on the beach and the cliffsides not being left horrifically empty and hollow with Newt and Thomas there to simply be, to witness, to occupy the same amount of space as they take up inside his brain.

There's two new clouds following tow, now, moved just a few inches closer to shore than they were a bare ten minutes ago. A new, darker shade of gray. Minho's been trying to tie a double knot for twice as many minutes, but his hands might be too restless for it, and he keeps his eyes glued to the sky, still, since no one else will.

Right up until he gets his focus cruelly ripped away, and the rope, too, along with it. Before he knows it, Gally's appeared by his side and snatched the rope out of his hands, looking at him with the same sour expression that has permanently stuck itself to his face, for all he knows.

"Hey," he voices in a protest he isn't entirely committed to, not like he is to sneak another glance back at the clouds, a weary feeling grinding on his bones with an equally cruel, sandpaper roughness, "Quit being a dick."

"You're slacking," Gally accuses him, "I'd like to finish this before dark, if you don't mind."

Minho huffs. "Waste of time."

"What?"

"Storm's coming," he finally tells him, with nowhere to put his hands anymore and nothing to do with them, and there's an echo of sounds, bangs of wood and metal and screeches ripped out of premature mouths, and Minho remembers.

He shouldn't be doing this. The sky looks no darker than it did two minutes ago, and it's the kids pushing each other into the water and his fellow Gladers nearly dropping some of the materials over their own feet and nothing more, and yet, there's a split second there, where his entire body stills and his vision flashes white and where he remembers nothing but hot pain in his limbs and the lightning in the scorch.

He shouldn't be scared. He isn't scared.

Gally follows his gaze to the sky, too, looking pretty unimpressed.

"Sky's clear," he says, and Minho shakes his head.

"There," he points out to him, it should be glaringly obvious, "I can feel it."

"You're being paranoid," the other boy still refuses, not sparing the clouds another glance, "Where's Newt and Thomas, anyways?"

It's an entirely different thing, now, that catches Minho's attention. He isn't paranoid, but it's almost as if Gally's ripped the names of their friends right out of his mind, almost as if he could hear the echo of their names as he worries about them, over and over, ricochet inside his skull.

Gally isn't a mindreader, and Gally definitely doesn't know any better about the storm that's rising slowly across the horizon, but Minho will admit it to no one but himself, that the mention of Newt and Thomas out loud is one he doesn't entirely understand. Neither of them were supposed to be on duty to work on construction today, and while Newt said he was going to help out Fry in the kitchen, Thomas has the tendency to wander off on his own, much to his own frustration.

It's just not safe, is all. Minho really hopes he hasn't decided on doing that today. He and Newt would run circles around the island three times over to find him, but Newt also tells him he worries too much for his own good.

"Huh?"

"They weren't with you this morning," Gally elaborates, which doesn't exactly clear up anything at all.

"Right," he replies, "I don't know."

Gally snorts. "You always know."

"It's not like we're attached at the hip," Minho says, not really in the mood to argue with him about whatever it is he seems to have a problem with, but frankly, his relationship with Thomas and Newt isn't anyone else's business but his own.

"Sure," the other boy drags the word out for forever, a clear sarcasm in his voice that only confuses Minho even further.

"Why are you being so weird today?"

"I'm not being weird," Gally retaliates, "You're the one getting distracted and getting nothing done. Just take a break or get your shit together, I don't care."

Great. Gally always has to remind him whenever he briefly forgets how much of an asshole he is. Minho almost takes the rope back from him just to piss him off, but he can't bring himself to care enough, so he brushes him off entirely, except a glance back to the sky confronts him with just how much closer those grey clouds are getting to the shore, how much they've grown in size while he was too busy arguing to keep watch.

"If you don't cover all this up, you'll regret it!" Minho calls after the boy, who leaves with a surely snarky comment that he doesn't hear. He can't even finish his thought before a new sound breaks through Safe Haven's serenity, an orchestra of them, in fact, only they don't come from the ground.

They're rumbling quietly above him, instead. The wind's picked up enough that the kids stop in their tracks, that their loud voices die down to a stunned silence, that, suddenly, everyone's watching the sky, just like they should've been doing this whole time. It happens in a matter of minutes, that the sun retreats to its hiding place, and those dark clouds, they're closing in. There's only shades of grey lighting up the sky now, and Minho should've been ready to run, but he isn't.

The noise surrounds him, no, almost… consumes him. The rest of the Gladers make quick work of salvaging what they can, getting the children inside, running against the harsh ocean winds rolling in towards them, but Minho sits there, feeling like he's frozen in time.

It's only the warmth of a hand on his shoulder that makes him realize he'd stopped breathing for a second altogether. He doesn't know what sound it is that makes it out of his throat, he knows he doesn't like it, but Thomas doesn't comment on it.

"It's just me," the boy says, eyes blown wide with all the worrying he's doing, "You're okay."

Minho doesn't feel very okay. He won't move, or maybe he can't. But it's been six months, and there are at least twenty separate times in his short life committed to memory that he's almost died and come back out on the other side, and he shouldn't be scared of a little thunderstorm.

His hum in response doesn't sound right, either. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"You're shaking," Thomas tells him, and, huh, he's right, and Minho can't make it stop, not even when the other boy takes his trembling hands in both of his, "Let's go home."

"I don't need to-" he starts, but he's not even sure where he's going with those words, because his jaw is close to going numb from grinding his teeth and his headache's getting worse, "I can handle it."

"Minho," the boy urges, grip on his hands tight and unwavering, "Nothing's gonna happen to you. Just please come with me."

Newt's the one who's good at winning arguments. There's no argument he's ever lost. Minho and Thomas, though, they just walk around each other in circles until they get too tired and too annoyed, and he wants to push it, but he remembers far too much, and he doesn't want to be pulled back in that memory right now.

If only he could dig out some of the good memories from the back of his mind, the ones WCKD took away from him, instead of all of this. If he even had any good ones in the first place. He really hopes he did.

So, he doesn't push it, and he doesn't push the boy away, he tries his hardest to focus on the sweaty palms against his own instead of the dark clouds looming over them, and he nods. "Fine."

"You're okay."

"Okay."

They hurry their way back to their cabin, not quite running and not quite walking, maybe some brand new concept of a thing that hasn't been named before, where Thomas doesn't let go of his hand and stumbles to always keep two steps in front of him, almost as if he could shield Minho from the storm with his body alone. Minho lets him.

The wind is howling mournfully once they're inside, and it's almost like Newt heard him, almost like his thoughts were loud enough to be heard over the growl of the gray skies as they roll over the beach, when the boy they were missing slams the door behind him not long after.

It's not one of those nights where they talk, not until they're under the covers again, and Minho can feel his nails digging into his palms as the unmistakable sound of lightning striking the ground echoes through the early evening. He knows his fists are so tight that his skin stings, but he can't make this stop, either, not until Thomas' hand finds his arm again, and Newt tugs on him until he turns around, a hand on his waist and another on his face.

He didn't even realize that he was sweating. Or maybe he's crying. Maybe it's both.

"I'm fine," he says, even though no one asked, and his voice is disgustingly low and gravelly and wrong.

"Never said you weren't," Newt replies, even though neither of them believe him.

He finds he doesn't really mind today, because he's got Thomas and Newt wrapped around him while the sky lights up once, twice, three times, and they just hold onto him tighter, every time the sound makes him choke on his own tongue.

He knows that it feels like a million years have passed before the sound grows distant, distant enough to a whisper, and that Thomas is midway through narrating his latest petty fight with Gally to them when the world fades into darkness. When Minho wakes up again, he doesn't know if it's night or morning or afternoon again, but he knows he isn't shaking anymore, which is probably a good thing.

And he knows he's got Newt's hair in his face and Thomas drooling on his shoulder, which is a lot better. He doesn't spare the sky even one glance before he lets his heavy eyelids drop once again.

☀︎

It's been six months since they arrived in Safe Haven, six whole months, and Brenda has decided that this calls for a proper celebration. Their first, proper party in their first, proper home, and Thomas is excited, sure, he is, but he's begrudgingly got his head filled up with many other things begging for his attention.

Well, just one thing, really. His friends have been talking nonstop about the promise of music and a feast and alcohol, can you shucking believe that, but Thomas' mind has been spinning in circles lately, because everyone is acting strange, really strange.

It's got nothing to do with the party, and everything to do with… he's got no clue, actually.

He tries to remember, if it started with Teresa back at the beach, or if he just didn't notice it and have been a stupid idiot this whole time, and maybe it's both, but everyone is being weird and he doesn't understand why. Everyone, except Minho and Newt.

It's got something to do with Minho and Newt, somehow, for some reason, because Brenda's been giving him these looks, across from the bonfire when Thomas has fallen asleep with his head on Newt's shoulder and with Minho's head in his lap, a smile that grows into smugness. He tells himself he's probably imagining it, but then she rolls her eyes when he tells her he's going home early the next day, poking his ribs as he stares at her in confusion.

"Yeah, yeah, run along, loverboy," she tells him with a fond look in her eyes, and Thomas wants to ask what she's talking about, but then her eyes catch Teresa's over the dinner table and he drops it entirely.

Brenda isn't the only one. One day it's Sonya politely declining their invite for her to join them at lunch, she doesn't want to interrupt, she says, and she's gone before Thomas can even open his mouth to figure out a reply for it. The next, it's Harriet telling them they really do look good together, whatever that means, and knowing smiles and winks in their general direction and Teresa's words about bravery run in endless circles inside his head until he's exhausted from it all.

So exhausted that he's eating lunch with Minho and Newt without hearing a word they're saying, because it feels like there's some widespread secret going around that everyone has just agreed to leave him out of. They're mere hours out from the party tonight, and the air is more vibrant than ever, and every resident of the safe haven is more alive than ever, too, preparing for the biggest night of their lives and bickering about the simplest, silliest inconveniences, ones that wouldn't even mattered a mere six months ago when they were all just trying to survive another day.

Now, though, now they mean everything. He doesn't think this place has ever felt so normal before, not until today.

Meanwhile, Thomas' exhaustion has turned to frustration. As it turns out, Newt and Minho don't take very long to notice. He's never really been good at being subtle.

"Thomas," Minho's voice snatches him back to reality, "You doing okay?"

"Hm?"

"You've been quiet all day," Newt tells him, "It's concerning."

Thomas sighs. "I'm just tired," he decides to say, which isn't completely false, but he also feels a little crazy, and he isn't really ready for them to tell him that he's probably just being delusional.

"You're thinking too hard," Minho concludes, and he taps his temple once, twice, with the hand that was running absentmindedly through Thomas' hair just seconds earlier, the hand that isn't resting on Newt's legs, and so he encourages him, "Tell us what's going on."

It's a tempting offer. He almost hopes they're as confused as he is, just so he won't be completely in this. So, he tries to get his predicament out in a way that sounds, well, mostly normal. A challenge for him, to say the least, but he gives it a shot, nevertheless.

"Have you guys noticed it, too?"

The boys share a look he's entirely unable to decipher before turning their attention back to him. "Noticed what?" Newt asks.

"That everyone's being really shucking weird and cryptic," he replies, "About us."

To his surprise, Minho huffs over a laugh, shaking his head before he speaks again. "I knew there was something wrong with Gally."

"I don't think I can name a single thing that's right with Gally," Thomas responds, and Minho laughs out loud this time, throwing his head so far back it's a miracle he isn't falling off his chair and bringing both of them down with him, entirely unbothered by the eye roll Newt's currently giving him. He's smiling, though, he knows he's pretty funny, neither of them can deny it.

"I've actually been thinking the same thing," Newt ponders, "Fry said he had been wondering about us."

Thomas frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Newt gives him is a shrug, and Minho hums when he's caught his breath again. "Gally's always giving us these… looks. You see that? Brenda, too."

"You've seen it too!" Thomas exclaims, "And always taking about giving us privacy, and… I was saying to Teresa, she has to do something, because Brenda clearly has feelings for her, too, like, it's obvious, and-"

He has to stop himself, because, well, okay. Okay, that's… something to think about.

The two boys next to him are staring at him, now, shared looks taking a turn from confused to concerned at his sudden silence, he presumes. Thomas, though, he's too busy staring at Newt's legs, which are currently swung up to rest in Minho and Thomas' laps. He's too busy remembering Minho's hand that still hasn't left his hair and the other that's tracing circles on Newt's thigh, and if he's right about this, then-

"Evening, lovebirds," Brenda's voice nearly slaps him in the face with the realization of this misunderstanding, as she walks up to them with a grin wider than he's ever seen, "I hope you're ready to drink until you can't stand, Thomas, I'm looking at you."

Huge misunderstanding, that is.

"Brenda," he says, no time to think about the big night ahead of them, "Do you think we're dating?"

The girl widens her eyes. "In your dreams, maybe."

"No, no! Not you and me, I mean-" he hurries, "You said… Minho and Newt. And me. Do you think we're together?"

Judging by how both of his friends sound like they're choking on nothing but their own oxygen at his words, they're about as shocked about this as he is.

As if things couldn't get even more confusing, it's Brenda who laughs this time. "I don't think anything, Thomas. Did Gally give you some of his special brew, or what?"

"No!"

"What's wrong with you?" the girl asks, sounding genuinely curious, "What, are you telling me that you three aren't a thing?"

"Yeah," Minho chimes in, "We're not a thing."

"Where did you get that idea from?" Newt asks as the frown on his face deepens, and it only makes Brenda laugh harder.

"Oh, this is priceless," is all she tells them, and Thomas wants to get another word in, but Gally is joining their conversation before he can blink.

"What's so funny?" he asks, and Brenda's eyes are practically sparkling as she turns to the boy, eagerly explaining the situation to him as if it's the funniest thing she's ever heard, as if it's the most important piece of news in the world, which it isn't, because Thomas isn't dating Newt and Minho.

He isn't dating them. He's never dated either of them. He's pretty sure he knows what dating entails, anyways, and this certainly isn't it. It's not, right?

"These three idiots here," the girl gestures towards them, barely able to wipe the grin off her face, entirely ignoring their collective protests, "They just told me they're not together."

Gally gives them the same glare he gives everyone, but Thomas is pretty sure that's just how his face looks naturally. "Right, funny."

"We're not joking!" Thomas interjects, "Why would you think we're dating each other? We- I- uh, we're friends!"

"Thomas, I'm your friend," Brenda says, "And I'm not living in a secluded cabin with you with absolutely zero personal space, so I don't know what you think is going on here."

"Living together doesn't mean we're dating," Minho huffs, "What kind of logic is that?"

"I haven't been sharing the same bed with my friends for the past six months, either," the girl snarks back.

"That's not-" Minho stops in his tracks before he can get any more words past his lips, seemingly getting lost in thought as he takes in Brenda's argument, "Friends share beds."

Exactly, Thomas nods in agreement. That doesn't count, or mean anything, for that matter, friends share beds all the time. He used to sleep in Newt and Minho's hammocks all the time, back in the Glade. They're friends. Unless…

"We've always been close," Newt argues, which is also very true, "We care about each other just like we care about everyone else, it's just, I mean… it's just different."

Thomas and Minho nod. Even Newt doesn't look entirely sure now, though.

"Different," Brenda echoes, "I can't believe this. Yeah, you guys have always been really weird and really touchy with each other. I thought it was pretty obvious."

"We're not-"

"You never go anywhere without each other," she carries on.

"We do," Minho argues.

Newt soon follows it with a, "Sometimes."

"We'd just prefer not to," Thomas adds, and, okay, he supposes he's aware of how that sounds, "I mean, we look out for each other. Like friends do. Friends do that."

"Vince," Brenda spots him over her shoulder, the amusement on her face growing by the second, "You were also under the assumption that Thomas, Minho and Newt here were, you know, romantically involved. Right?"

The older man nods. Thomas sputters.

"Not you, too!"

"What's this about?"

"They're telling me they're not together," Brenda fills him in.

Vince stares blankly at them for a minute, maybe two, not looking particularly interested in the conflict whatsoever. Then, he lets out a heavy sigh. "I'll never understand you kids."

"Did you all think we were together?" Newt asks, laugh incredulous and clearly entirely in disbelief when Brenda and Gally both confirm it, "You didn't think to, I don't know, ask us about it?"

"You've been weird about each other since the day I met you," the girl concurs, "I just thought you had finally gotten your shit together. Unbelievable."

"They've definitely gotten more annoying," Gally adds, and the asshole walks away before Thomas can protest him any further, and he's just grateful that his friends are seemingly as shocked about this as he is.

It's Minho who yells at him to fuck off, and Brenda sighs and pats Newt's shoulder as she passes by them, and Thomas is only a little scared that she'll still be laughing about this come tonight's celebration.

"Just think about it," is what the girl leaves them with, and when silence falls on them, Thomas can't stop himself from staring, and thinking, and, then, maybe he's really that stupid, or maybe he's been ignoring it this whole time. Maybe there's something he's got to admit to himself, which is that he hasn't exactly dated anyone before. Not a lot of time for any of that in the short time of his life that he does remember, after all.

He's not actually he knows what dating is even supposed to mean, or cares for a definition, anyways, because what he felt for Teresa was real and what he feels for Newt and Minho is real, too. It's just different.

He's honestly got no idea what different is supposed to mean, either, but there's something about it that feels right, so very right, as right as never wanting to sleep without either of them ever again, as right as how all he's ever seen in his nightmares is the two of them slipping away from him. Night after night after night. And it feels normal, he thinks, or maybe he can make it normal, just by sheer force and will and grit.

"Are we stupid?" he asks the boys next to him, and he hopes for it, he really does, the longer they look back at him and each other and when Newt finally shrugs.

Maybe it's the kind of thing that should come crashing down on them, one that should be complicated, because Thomas isn't sure normality is even possible for them anymore, not sure it ever was. And he doesn't know how to date. He doesn't know how to date two people, let alone one person. With Minho and Newt, though, it already feels pretty easy.

Minho hums. "I've never had two boyfriends before."

Newt smiles wider this time around, a chuckle that sounds like he's come to the same conclusion, and Minho looks so goddamn proud of himself, even as the other boy shoves him with no malice and all fondness behind it. Maybe this is what normal is supposed to be. Easy.

"You've never had one boyfriend," Newt teases him.

"You don't know my life," Minho gasps in return, only pretending to be offended for the sake of it, and Thomas can't help but burst into their joint laughter, either, and maybe, if they were normal, this is the kind of thing they should actually talk about. Maybe they will. Right now, though, he just knows he doesn't want this feeling to ever go away, if he can help it.

"Can we just go home?" is all Thomas asks them. They both take his hands in lieu of a reply, and that feels pretty easy, too.