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Chapter Text

A few hours in Paradise had passed before they brought Thomas to a bed in a tent on the edge of the village. 

He was still breathing, labored and loud as Gally and Vince carried him there, but with enough care and medical help he would survive, hopefully.

The same couldn't be said about Newt.

Minho had carried him alone, to a bed in the medical tent. He had declared that Newt would be taken care of, until they could bear to think of what to do. He had begged them to try.

Sonya's protests that there was nothing left of Newt to take care of died on her lips at the tortured expression on Minho's face, tears tracking across the dirt under his eyes. 

She knew, deep down, it was true, even as she tied her hair back, washed her hands in the basin of slightly cooled boiled water, and went to work gathering every supply she could think of.

IVs, a catheter bag, a breathing tube (the only one they had, and even that was slightly cracked). They had power here, but not a lot supplies to spare. Seemed risky to use it on someone who didn't need it anymore.

She had volunteered to help the one doctor they had (even if Dr. Garcia happened to be a veterinarian) for reasons unknown even to herself; she knew next to nothing about medical care. Perhaps she just needed to keep busy, avoid thinking. 

Perhaps it was because of the familiar pull she had toward the dead boy on the bed. 

She wondered if he was the one, the big brother she remembered, their memories rooted in her mind now that she had the Swipe removed. He had to be, the coincidences were too many. But they had changed his name, and time had changed this boy's face, so she couldn't be sure. 

She looked at him again. 

Newt was covered head to toe in soot and smoke and a foul, black fluid she thought might be his blood. The raised, purple veins on his arms and neck and face scared her, turned her stomach. 

Somebody, Minho probably, had closed his eyes, and she was thankful for it. He was limp, his pale skin already turning gray, and she knew he should just be buried, or burned. 

Before he started to smell.

That thought did it, pushed what little food and water she had in her stomach out of her mouth as she turned, choked it out into a bucket that served as a trash bin. It was acrid as it tore its way up her throat, and her eyes watered as she heaved. 

Dr. Garcia paused, looking at her. Sonya wiped the stinging tears from her eyes as she stood up again. 

"You need a break?" The doctor asked, voice kind, and Sonya hated the pity in the women's warm brown eyes.

"I'm fine," she protested, sniffing and clearing her throat, "Let's just...do this." 

Dr. Garcia raised her eyebrows, but didn't push it. Sonya set her jaw, determined to help and to get closure.

They set about undressing Newt to clean him. He must have been really sick, Sonya realized, as she and the doctor lifted him without much difficulty. He felt like skin and bones under her hands. 

Sonya prepared a basin of soapy water as Dr. Garcia went outside to get rid of Newt's clothes. 

She had the ridiculous urge to look away from the naked body laying there. He was dead, what did he care about modesty?

She felt the guilt rise like bile, berated herself for how awful and dehumanizing the thought was. He had still been a person, after all. 

She thought back to all the girls they had to bury in the Maze, killed by accidents or panic or Grievers. How they had said kind words, gave them dignity.

Newt deserved that, too. 

He might have been a person she had loved very much, until it had hurt her chest, once upon a time. The thought gave her vertigo. 

She approached the bed, gently brushed his filthy hair back as an apology. She brought the basin over and began to clean him, the water slowly turning ashy-black as she worked. She replaced it with a clean supply. 

The doctor came back a while later, smelling like fuel.

"I burned them," Dr. Garcia said, taking up her own sponge and helping clean Newt's arms, "I'll get him some more soon."

Sonya's brow furrowed, "Minho knows this is a waste of time, right? Newt's not going to come back, he's..." her voice cracked.

She couldn't finish, knowing she sounded like an animal for even saying it but unable to stop herself. Misplaced grief rose up in her throat. Maybe she was going crazy, too. 

"I know, honey," Dr. Garcia said, "but I also know that people grieve the way they need to. Preparing a body for rest is part of that." 

Rest. 

Sonya liked the way she had said it like that, as if they were tucking a child in for sleep. 

She remembered her brother, sharing a bed with him as a child, so like this boy in the bed and so different. She felt that pull again, the urge to protect. 

She watched Dr. Garcia bring another basin over to wash Newt's hair, touching him as carefully as a mother would have. 

"Who was it for you?" 

Sonya knew it from the way the woman worked, no use holding back. Even though she knew that it would drag up unpleasant memories for the doctor, she needed to talk about it, share the pain a little.

"My daughter, Cynthia," the doctor replied after a moment, "she was younger than you all, looked just like me."

Dr. Garcia smiled, then sighed, looking far away as she worked. Sonya looked down, scrubbing carefully under Newt's nails, couldn't look at her as she spoke again.

"She got sick, and my husband and I thought it was just school colds, you know? But then she got worse, and the hospital said they couldn't help, so we took her home to rest. She...we tried to help. But she passed."

Her voice wobbled as she spoke, and she sniffed and Sonya knew she was crying.

"I cleaned her and put her in her favorite yellow dress, and we buried her."

Sonya was aware of wetness on her own cheeks, the ache in her heart, and she looked up, met the watery gaze of the woman across from her.

"I'm so sorry," she said, feeling awful at the poor choice of words, knowing they couldn't ever touch grief like that. 

She put down the sponge and reached out, taking the women's hand and squeezing. Dr. Garcia smiled and squeezed back.

"Thank you, honey. The good Lord is taking care of her now," she said, picking up a towel to dry Newt's hair. 

Sonya nodded, her throat tight. Maybe she could learn to pray now that everything was over. Maybe the doctor's God would take care of Newt, too. 

She and Dr. Garcia cleaned and dressed Newt in silence, a plain white shirt and blue cloth pants that were fetched, and a pair of gray socks Sonya found that were far too big for him, but it didn't matter. 

She wondered what Newt's favorite color had been, if she should ask so they could dress him in it. She figured it would be a bad idea, that his friends wouldn't want to think about that. Maybe they would never want to talk about him again after he was laid to rest. Sonya couldn't blame them if they didn't.

The doctor stitched the gaping wound in his chest closed, and cleaned and dressed other wounds he got from who-knows where. They put his breathing tube in, and IVs, and his catheter. 

The old machine wheezed as it pumped oxygen to his body, his chest rising and falling with the movement and almost giving Sonya a foolish flash of hope for a moment. She told herself it was just his lungs inflating, nothing to get excited about.

Sonya covered him with a blanket, realizing that without the tube and freshly cleaned, Newt really looked like he could be sleeping now. He looked peaceful, like her brother had when they were little. 

The question gnawed at her. 

She and Dr. Garcia cleaned the tent, washed their hands and stood back to look at their work. 

"Do you think there's even a chance at all?" Sonya heard herself ask.

"I think...we know less about this virus than we ever dreamed," Dr. Garcia replied slowly, "But there's always hope, honey." 

Sonya nodded and Dr. Garcia patted her warmly on her cheek before leaving the tent. Sonya stood there, arms crossed tightly, staring hard at Newt's body. 

Before the Maze and the Grievers and the Scorch and all the hell they all went through she may have agreed with the doctor. But now, here, with the quiet of the ocean and the clicks and groans of Newt's machine, she wasn't sure.

"You hear that?" She said to him, her voice cracking, "You better fight like Hell and give us some hope, boy."

She had a flash of how Harriet had addressed Aris when he had first woken up at her tone.

"You had better talk fast, boy," Harriet had threatened.

She almost laughed, choking it down so she wouldn't start screaming instead. 

Newt laid there, mock-breathing. He looked much younger than he was. 

Sonya wondered who he had been. Who he was, what he was like, if he was her kin.

She had been told he was essentially her mirror image, the second-in-command of his Maze just like she had been to Harriet. He had seemed quiet, pensive when she had met him, but that also could have been the virus playing tricks on his behavior. 

He was so similar to the brother from her memories, same accent she had lost herself, same hair, same eyes. She knew they had taken him, had put him in his own Glade. She hadn't seen him in years, and though logic told her Newt was him, she couldn't believe it. 

Because no matter what, this boy was gone. 

She hoped against hope that her brother wasn't, wherever he was. 

She shook her head, shifted her weight, and left the tent, her feet heavy on the sand as she headed back to the tent she shared with Harriet and Aris. The waves crashed on the shore, and Sonya thought they sounded lonely. 

In another bed, yards away, cleaned, dressed, and tended to just as carefully as Newt had been, Thomas was stirring fitfully. 

Chapter Text

Thomas woke up on a gasp, sat up and grasped the surface under him before he even realized it was a bed.

He was alone, in a tent. He could hear the ocean, the salty, briny smell of it carried to him on the breeze. He had no idea where he was, but he could guess. 

He turned, put his feet on the floor, and instantly felt a shot of pain in his stomach. He grunted with the effort, gingerly lifting his shirt to inspect himself.

Someone had cleaned him up, put a bandage over his wound. Blood seeped through, and he could feel the pull of stitches as he breathed, but it felt okay.

He touched the area around it, and everything that had happened came flooding back to him. Getting shot, WICKED going up in flames, Teresa, Newt.

Newt.

He knew they hadn't left him there. He hoped they had at least waited for him to wake up before burying him. Thomas needed to see him in daylight, try to nail it into his brain that he was gone.

Everything inside of him was empty. Something was torn there, in his chest, and he placed his hand over it, hoping to press the edges of the tear together. He knew it wouldn't work. They couldnt stitch that part up.

He stood up carefully. His legs wobbled as all the blood rushed downward, and he had to steady himself on the table next to him. He noticed the vials on it: one was a painkiller, the others he wasn't sure of.

He made his way to the opening of the tent, pulled back the flap and gazed out. 

A brilliant blue sky greeted him, the ocean right ahead, a few yards away, crashing along a rocky shore. He walked out, sank into the sand with each step, taxing his wound as his core shifted to maintain his balance.

It was beautiful, he couldn't deny that, but its beauty didn't reach him through the fog in his mind. He turned his head to the right at the sound of voices, the clang of a hammer. It was a whole village, tents dotted all along the hillside, smoke rising from some of them. He could smell cooking, hear people talking, laughing. 

The Safe Haven. They had made it. What a hollow victory. 

Thomas walked toward the sounds, not even the smell of smoked meat making him hungry even though it had been who-knows how long since he'd eaten. All he felt was the hole in his chest as he made his way along the shore, opting for the grass so he didn't have to balance too much. 

He spotted a girl he didnt know, her long red hair tied back, a mask on her face. She was carrying medical supplies in her arms, and froze when she saw him. 

He approached her, and before he could speak she addressed him.

"Are you okay, Thomas?"

He nodded his head, wondering if everyone here knew him automatically. 

"Do you know where he is? Newt?" Thomas asked, his voice cracked from not speaking. 

Recognition lit up her eyes, and she looked off to her left. 

"They put him in the medical tent," she answered.

He frowned, opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"That guy, Minho? He said you'd be asking about him." 

Of course he had. Thomas wondered when he had become such an open book.

He thanked the girl, and passed her as he made his way to easily one of the biggest tents in the village. It was bleached from the sun, waxy from salt and water, and he was suddenly afraid of it. 

He pushed on, almost slipping on a rock as he made his way up to the entrance. He pushed the fabric out of the way, and entered. 

The tent was mostly empty, just a few people here and there, mostly taking inventory or cleaning things. Someone at the far end of the room was getting a wound in his hand patched up by a guy with dark hair. 

Thomas spotted him immediately as he scanned the tent, and the floor tilted unpleasantly.

They hadn't buried him at all. He was there, cleaned and dressed and hooked up to tubes and wires. He was breathing, somehow and Thomas jolted before realizing it was most likely some kind of rudimentary life support.

The hole in his chest ached as he willed his feet forward, stepped up to the bed. 

Newt looked so weak, colorless, fragile. Angry veins contrasted with his pallor, his eyes were closed, his body thinner than Thomas had ever seen it. He felt an unexpected flash of anger: why hadn't they buried him? Why were they just leaving him here, alone? What were they hoping would happen?

He couldn't reason with it, but he found himself walking closer until his knees went weak and he hit the floor, kneeling at Newt's side. 

Thomas watched his chest rise and fall as the machine in his mouth clicked. Up and down, up and down. He felt eyes on him, and looked up to see the two guys across the tent staring at him. They quickly went back to what they were doing when he caught their gaze. 

He didn't care. All he could think of was how tight his throat had gotten, how he couldn't breathe. A tortured sound ripped it's way out of his chest, and he covered his mouth quickly to muffle it. His face was wet.

Newt. 

Gone, and he had done it. And he hadn't even helped him in the end, couldn't end his life even as Newt had begged him to. The room swam, and Thomas was sure that he would faint, or puke.

He looked up, anywhere but at Newt, and noticed he was alone now. He could still hear the life around him, laughter and singing and sizzling food. But here was only quiet. 

Thomas rubbed his hand across his side, trying to ease the emptiness inside of him, when his hand skipped over something hard in his pocket. He pulled it out, momentarily forgetting where he was, and held the little tube in his hand, the liquid inside electric blue as it reflected the sunlight. 

The cure, distilled from the blood he could hear pounding in his ears. He could save the whole world with more of this if he tried. He turned it over, reading the serial number, and realized he only wanted to give it to one person. 

He felt a strange determination rising in him, and he sprang to his feet, took Newt's arm. He stopped when he felt how cold his skin was. He pressed two fingers to his wrist, felt nothing answer him back. 

He knew this was stupid. Newt was dead, there was nothing he could do now, and maybe it was his responsibility to use his gift to cure the whole world. But even if he had wanted to, all the scientists who could have made the elixir were dead now. The tube was useless. 

Thomas didn't deserve this, this wonderful miracle he supposedly had floating around his system, rendered absolutely pointless now.

He flashed back to Teresa, and how she had stood facing Janson while Thomas had hid, shot through the stomach. He had listened as Janson had said exactly that. He had never worked for this, had been handed this.

Maybe, Teresa had spit back, but it's his. 

Thomas swallowed, twisted the tube until the spring-loaded needle shot out, glinting and ready.

His. An evolutionary advantage he had been born with, had never asked for, and was now his to control. 

Suddenly, he wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to take that part of himself, all the pain and hurt and trauma, and get rid of it. What did it matter to him that he could save the world? When the one person he couldn't save was here in front of him.

He had to let it die, stop the responsibility and obligation. If it had to die, he wanted it buried with Newt. 

Thomas grasped Newt's arm again, picked the biggest vein he could find in his inner elbow, and plunged the needle in. The tube hissed a little as he released the cure into his body. 

Thomas stepped away when it was empty, threw it carelessly into the bin next to Newt's bed. He knew he was being ridiculous, that Newt didnt even have a working heart to pump the liquid around his system, but he couldn't care less at that moment. 

He had gotten his closure, he had tried to save Newt, again. And now he knew he could be at peace when they dug the grave, knowing he had tried everything he could. 

His hands fluttered over Newt, settled on his chest, patted gently over his heart, before Thomas forced himself to turn around. He left the tent, wringing his hands out, and stared at the sea. 

It wasn't beckoning like he had thought it would be. The ship in the distance was just a ship now, not a promise of salvation to the world. The cure was gone, and Thomas felt his chest lift in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. 

He started down the path toward the tents, saw faces he didn't recognize, and then one he did. 

Minho caught his eye where he was sitting next to Jorge, got up and approached him, the others followed behind him. They paused a few feet from each other, and Minho scanned over him, his face crumpling. Thomas felt his eyes well up, and he strode foward, embraced Minho tightly.

They stood there, sharing the sorrow and heartbreak together silently, swaying a little. Thomas could feel Minho exhale heavily, hold tighter than necessary, but Thomas let him. 

It was bittersweet, to have his grief echoed back to him as he embraced his friends, but it did nothing to close the hole in his chest. He saw the same fear and terror and anguish in all their eyes, and it wasn't a relief, it just made it more real. 

Thomas went through the motions of chatting quietly, comforting and being comforted in return, talking about the bonfire that evening, but his mind kept drifting to Newt. 

He decided not to tell Minho.

Chapter Text

Newt was on fire.

Agony. Pure, white-hot pain.

It was paralyzing, ripping and tearing through his veins, his skin, his bones, curling up his spine, but he couldn't move, couldn't alleviate it in any way.

It felt like every kind of pain at once: scrapes, cuts, burns, bruises. Deep, so deep in him he was sure it was in his cells, in the very atoms that made him up.

It radiated like an earthquake across his limbs, fogged his brain, he couldn't breathe but his lungs did anyway, like someone was forcing air into and out of him. 

It wasn't fair. Death wasn't supposed to hurt.

He tried to cry out, to tell someone, anyone, to just kill him, to end it. It was futile. He couldn't even move his eyes. The world wouldn't fade, wouldn't let him pass out to get some relief. 

It was confusing, too. Coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, no obvious injury. It felt like someone was cutting him into pieces. 

The pain spiked, getting worse even though he had thought for certain that was impossible. He could feel it clacking along across the inside of his head, worse than spikes, like razors across his brain. He waited for death, for someone to help him, for anything at all. 

He inhaled and exhaled in a calm rhythm completly at odds with his pain, against his will. His heart began to race, each beat bringing a fresh wave of pain. 

He became aware of his body then, he could feel himself lying horizontally. His limbs came back to him, his neck, head, the trunk of his body. Every inch was shaking uncontrollably, spasms riding out across his muscles. 

He also noticed the misery was lessening somehow. He would have sobbed if he could have, thankful that he was finally dying, that it would be over soon. The fire was fading from his fingers, his toes, leaving behind a staticky numbness like there was no circulation there. 

He waited, holding on, mapped it as it moved up his arms and legs, across his chest, his pelvis, and finally up to his neck and face. His heart was beating so fast it was a miracle it hadn't given out yet. 

Something drove what felt like a railroad spike into the top of his head, and his throat spasmed in what would have been a scream, but something was blocking it. 

Lightning. It had to be lightning. There was no other way he could justify the feeling. 

It crackled across his skull, vibrating his teeth, rattling him until the blessed numbness followed, fading out across his face and then nothing.

No more pain, no more misery. 

But he was still breathing, somehow. His heart was beating. He lay still, not trusting that any movement wouldn't make that pain come back again. 

The next thing shocked him. A warm rush across his entire body, like all the blood settling in its proper places. 

The feeling in his nerves came back to him all at once, like water to suffocate the fire, and it felt so good after the agony that he trembled with it. He felt high, or drunk, and his eyes rolled back in his head involuntarily. 

His eyes. 

He could move his eyes again. 

He did, under his lids, aware of light casting a yellow hue on them. He tested his fingertips, the sensation of fabric under them. He tried out other parts carefully, like a child discovering their body, found they could all move and he could feel. 

Panic fluttered in his stomach when he realized there was something in his throat. His eyes shot open, and he regretted it instantly as the brightness flooded them. It was a tube of some kind, down further inside of him than anything had been before, and he gagged on it. 

He heard a muffled voice, loud and penetrating but he couldn't make out any words. There were hands on him now, startling him and he opened his eyes again. 

A blurry figure he didnt recognize was working over him, dark skin, dark curly hair, female. Her lips were moving, telling him something and though the words came through clear, he didn't understand them. They were mixed up in his head: something about relax, calm, help. 

Help. 

He clung to that, doing what the woman said, and he nearly vomited as she went at his mouth, bringing up the thing in his throat until it was out. 

He inhaled, coughing, his throat sore and raw. His vision was getting clearer, and he had a brief moment of confusion and distress when he looked around, unable to recognize anyone or anything in the room he was in.

It was daytime, and he could hear water coming from somewhere.

His eyes locked on a blonde girl at the end of the bed he was on, and his mind supplied a name: Sonya. For the life of him, he couldn't remember how he knew that. 

"Honey, can you hear me?" 

He turned his head toward the sound, raising it unconsciously and getting smacked with more pain before he laid it back down. 

He moved it up and down, and his movements were strange, shaky and uncoordinated. 

"How is this even possible?" the blonde girl asked.

"Honey, just be still, alright? Stay with us, you're going to be feeling the effects right now." 

Effects of what? He wasn't sure what was happening or why, but he forced himself to listen. He was in no fit state not to at the moment. 

He focused on the conversation around him, reminding himself to breathe slowly. Their words were becoming clearer, getting to him in the right order this time. 

He heard the other girl approach, and the thunk of plastic next to him.

"It's here, look," she said.

Newt peeked through his lashes and saw she was holding something small and silver in her hand out to the other woman. They were frozen. 

He recognized it somehow, felt like it should mean something. His mind was frustratingly blank.

"My God," the darker woman breathed. 

"How long?"

"I have no idea. Could be a few minutes, could be a few hours. We just have to wait and see."

"How? I mean...he was gone."

"I don't know, honey, but right now we need to keep watch. Make sure he stays alive."

Huh. So he was alive, then. He figured as much, but it was good to hear it all the same. Though with whatever his brain was trying to do, it seemed like death might have been better. 

He supposed he should be thankful he could think at all after the lightning. He took a quick inventory: He had his senses, reason and logic, but little to no memories or recognition, some movement.

He tried to clench his fist, and the wrong one moved. Frustrated, he tried again and this time it worked.

"I'm gonna give you something, honey. I'll be here, you just need to sleep, okay?" 

He forced a small noise out of his dry throat, unable to argue even if he had wanted to. 

He felt a prick of pain in his right arm, a heavy comforting fog, and then it all went dark.

Chapter Text

Gally squeezed his eyes shut against the sweat threatening to drip into them. 

His body ached, his hands fit to split open, but he kept working. He had thrown himself into repairing and constructing various shelters dotting the island, working under the hot sun and blowing sand. It was tedious work, too easy, but it was all he had. 

It kept the thoughts away.

It also kept the cravings away, he thought absently, lining a nail up onto the post he was working on, his hands not wanting to steady.

He knew he shouldn't have started, but who could blame him for drinking maybe a little too much for too many days after everything that had happened? It had been so simple: he was the only one with the recipe, he knew he could make it anywhere, out of almost anything. 

And it was fun. Drinking with friends, throwing that burning liquid down his throat until he was laughing and happy and not worried about anything. 

Drinking until everyone was happy. 

Drinking until everyone was frowning at him, steadying his wobbly body, asking if he needed some water, telling him to lay down.

And the next morning was always the same: the good numb feeling had turned into shaky hands and a sore head and that gnawing empty feeling that no liquid could fill up.

He grunted, kneeling to help Vince lift a post up to lean into place, sweat sticking to his underarms, his upper lip, his forehead. 

It still smelled like the alcohol. It made his stomach turn.

"You okay?" Vince's voice cut through his internal monologue.

Gally nodded, turning away deliberately to pick out another nail. He took more time than necessary, avoiding Vince's concerned gaze.

The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, and that always meant bad news. Gally had a vague memory of some old song...5 o' clock something? Whatever, he knew it was about booze.

He shook his head, hoping it would clear away the thoughts. He concentrated on measuring and building and helping, working harder than strictly necessary.

It was fine, until he was alone. 

Then he couldnt help thinking about Chuck and Newt and all the others. He would lay at night, feeling his one working lung fighting to keep him alive, and every breath was a punishment he felt he deserved. 

He accepted the skipping heart and sore chest and the hangovers that ripped his head open with a sick sort of satisfaction. If no one else would make him pay for what he did, then his body surely would.

They were so kind, forgiving when they had no right to be. He hadn't been in his right mind, sure, but that couldn't erase what he had done to his friends.

Gally sniffed, cleared his dry throat, and turned to see that doctor walking at a brisk pace from the medical tent. Gally frowned, trying to remember her name. 

Her arms were full of supplies, her hair was a frizzy mess, and she looked haggard but determined as she walked to the supply tent. Sonya and a boy Gally didn't recognize were right on her heels. 

Vince had frozen next to him, watching as well. It wasn't unusual to see medical workers in and out all day, but they never walked like that, like something urgent was happening.

"Thomas is still in the tent on the hill, right?" Gally asked, catching Vince's eye.

He knew Thomas was up and recovering, but the limited medical staff had insisted he stay in that tent for a while so they could monitor his situation for now.

Vince nodded, his gaze returning to his work hurriedly, like he was embarrassed to be caught watching. 

So it wasn't Thomas, Gally thought, forcing himself to concentrate on his task again. He couldn't ignore the feeling stirring in his gut, that same intuition that had kept him alive this long. 

Something was happening.

If his time away from the Glade had taught him anything, it was patience. He had spent months staking out Wicked's headquarters, running with the resistance, taking orders and giving them and waiting for results. So he decided to watch the group hurry back out of the corners of his eyes. 

They had more supplies than Gally had thought the Haven even had. Sonya alone was carrying extra clothes, water, an IV system. His fingers drifted absently over a box of nails as he counted suture boxes and bandages and other supplies meant for serious injuries. 

Gally glanced down to put his hands to work before doing a double take. Minho had jogged over to meet the doctor and her helpers, and the look on his face as they spoke had Gally up and running before he could think. 

Vince didn't say a word as he left. Minho turned, caught Gally coming toward him, and with a gesture of his hand, motioned for him to follow.

They took off running.

Chapter Text

Left, right, left, right, inhale, exhale...

It took almost everything Minho had to keep a steady pace as he ran across the sand to the medical tent, Gally hot on his heels. The sun beat a searing tattoo across the back of his neck, and every muscle protested at having to run yet again after such a short rest, but he ignored it.

If it was his choice he would have torn across that stupid beach screaming.

Somehow, he still had that piece of him left that had to stay steady for everyone else. The Leader, they had called him, and there was never a time when he wished it had been someone else more.

That doctor had barely choked out the words, like she couldn't even believe it herself, before they had started off.

"He's alive."

Minho reached the entrance of the tent and stopped too suddenly. He slipped on the sand, causing Gally to run headlong into his back. Minho flung out an arm to steady him, and they both let out hysterical chuckles as they looked at each other.

Gally's eyes were wild with fear. The hair on the back of Minho's neck stood up.

They paused. Gally nodded, and Minho reached out a shaking hand to pull back the tent flap.

Inside was cooler, more humid, and reeked of bleach and the hot-sweet smell of fever.

Before Minho could get a good look at the figure on the bed to his left, his vision was obscured by a cloud of blonde hair.

"He's still weak," Sonya said, her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face.

She moved between them and the bed, her expression defensive. Minho felt a sting of anger.

"I need to see him," Minho replied, his voice strange even to his own ears.

"Look, don't expect too much, okay?" she started, then her whole body crumpled in defeat, "I don't know what it did to him, but you've got to let him rest."

"We know, Sonya," Gally said, his voice quiet and almost soothing.

He moved forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. She deflated, and spared a pitying look as Minho passed that was worse than anything she could have said.

Newt was tiny, fragile looking as he lay there. His eyes were closed and he breathed deeply and that was all it took for Minho's own breathing to stop.

"He's..." he heard himself say, his voice cracking as he trailed off.

"How?" Gally asked loudly over him.

Sonya looked at both of them before fiddling with the blanket covering Newt.

"We think it was Thomas. It had to be," she began slowly.

She walked over to one of the metal tables and held something up for them to see. The silver vial trembled between her fingers, empty.

"I don't know how it worked. It was impossible, he was...well, you know. But he fought like hell yesterday and now he's like this," she explained.

"That dumb shank," Minho murmered in disbelief.

Gally spoke again from behind him, "Did Thomas know?"

"We don't think so. I mean, he heard what Teresa said, but," Sonya sighed, "Honestly, we don't know what he was thinking."

Minho stared at Newt, at the dark circles under his eyes and the dark bruises mottling his arms.

"Have you told him?"

Sonya shook her head, "Not yet. We wanted to wait to make sure overnight. Newt's been...it's been rough."

Minho scanned over her. Her face was shiny and her hair was coming out of her braid in some places. She looked like she hadn't slept all night.

They all hovered around the bed, looking at Newt, at the tubes running from seemingly every part of his body, at each other.

"I'll tell him," Minho announced, shooting Gally a glance.

Gally nodded, pursing his lips like he wanted to protest but decided not to. Sonya looked defeated as she met his eyes.

"I can't say for sure," she said, holding her hands up, "But he's been better today. We have an IV for hydration. He ate a little broth earlier."

Minho's head shot up at that.

"He woke up?"

Sonya grimaced, meeting his eyes.

"Not exactly. He's been sedated but we take him off for food. He's not really too awake then, but we don't have the equipment for a feeding tube," Sonya explained.

Minho nodded, wiped his hand across his face. He could hear Gally chewing his nails next to him.

"Has he...said anything?" Minho dared to ask.

"Nothing yet. I mean, he mumbles sometimes, but it's not words."

Sonya looked up as the dark haired doctor entered. They exchanged a meaningful glance, and the other woman busied herself adjusting something dripping from one of the IV bags.

"We have to be patient. Give him time," Gally said after a pause, that same soothing tone in his voice completely at odds with his nervous fingers.

Sonya nodded, latching on to his words, "He'll come around," she said, looking like she didn't quite believe it herself.

The doctor straightened up, brushing her hair back. She had matching dark circles under her eyes.

"We don't know what this 'cure' is doing to him," she said, straight to the point, "and we're not sure what the virus did either. Like your friend said, we have to be patient."

Minho nodded, casting his gaze down at Newt. He looked awful, skin pale and sallow, breathing like he was fighting for each one. It shot physical pain through Minho to watch. He clenched a fist.

"You know as well as I do, the virus attacks the brain. And the brain is a delicate and complex thing," the doctor said, "I can't make any promises, but I can tell you I will try my best."

She approached and took Minho's hand, her grip tight and warm.

"Tell who you need to, for now."

Minho knew what her tone implied. Neither of them thought Newt would make it for very long, if at all. He felt a spike of hurt. He hoped that God or whoever couldn't be that cruel: to give him back his friend and then take him away again.

Gally spoke up then, looking Minho straight in the eyes.

"Tell him. You know he won't believe it from me."

Minho stared at him for a moment longer before he turned and left the tent.

The sun assaulted his eyes, and he squinted, raising a hand to sheild them as he scanned over what little people were around. He had to find Thomas, to speak to someone who would know what to do, or at least act like he did.

Minho walked, slow but steady, up the hill toward the sun-bleached tent he knew Thomas was staying in. He didn't want to run this time.

Maybe he would never run again.

Everything in him felt like someone had torn it out, all the purpose and fight and even anger was gone. Now he just wanted to sink to the sand and weep.

But he kept walking, passing strangers and ignoring their greetings, listening to the sound of the ocean. It sounded tinny, and strange, and his head swam a little.

He didn't have to look far.

Thomas was sitting on a craggy piece of driftwood, spinning a chain in his hands. He looked as tired as Minho felt.

He didn't even look up as Minho approached. Just kept staring out at the sea, his fingers dancing over the necklace. He had a short-handled shovel next to him, propped against his makeshift bench.

"Is it time?" He asked after a beat. He met Minho's eyes and his face changed to an expression of surprise at whatever he saw there.

"How'd you know?" Minho asked him, and confusion furrowed Thomas's brow.

"Know what?"

"The cure," Minho said, his voice raising a little, "How'd you know?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Minho reached out, stopping Thomas's necklace fiddling with his hand.

"Because it worked," Minho added lowly, hearing Thomas's breath hitch, "Please, just tell me how you knew."

Thomas dropped the chain. It made a sizzling sound as it buried itself in the sand. He searched Minho's face. Understanding bloomed across his features.

"I didn't," Thomas breathed, his own fingers squeezing Minho's so tightly it hurt.

Minho felt his face crack into a painful smile despite himself, despite everything that had happened and was happening. If one thing could be counted on in his life it was Thomas running recklessly into something and somehow everything working out.

"You crazy son of a bitch," he told him.

Thomas was on his feet in a second, turning so fast Minho almost didn't have time to start jogging after him.

They flew across the beach then, in step, their paces matching.

Minho felt a strange sense of coming home. This is what he knew: moving with his runners, mapping and planning, the pounding of his feet and the air on his face. He allowed himself a small glimmer of hope that maybe everything would work out.

Maybe he would never run again after this, but right now, he could.