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Thomas would've sworn he was fine that morning.
Sure, he was shuckright tired, having been elected as one of the leaders of Paradise, shouting orders now and then (more often than not, though), although lately he had been clearing his throat quite a lot, and he would scrunch his eyes from headaches during council meetings, ignoring any concerned stares sent his way. Thomas chalked it down to mild post-traumatic stress and simply not drinking enough water. He was fine. Really.
-
One morning when he was out running (at obscene hours he would wake up from bad dreams, legs and feet twitching with the need to get away, and Minho would already be awake, handing him his running shoes), he stumbled across a tree root, and promptly blacked out.
When he came to a few seconds later Minho was all around him. "Thomas. Thomas, you okay? Talk to me, buddy."
"Yeah." He felt a sudden urge to cough. "Go on, I'll catch up." Standing up, Thomas regretted ever leaving home in the first place as his knees buckled from underneath him.
Minho caught him and said, "Of course I'm not going anywhere, because we're heading back." Warily, he let go of Thomas. "You look like you're about to go to sleep any minute, dude. Walk?"
"Yep, I'm good," and a few steps forward was all Thomas could manage before he fell into Minho's readily extended arms (such a strong, lovely pair of arms, he thought, and really, what?) and was clutching him the whole way back.
-
It came back on a cloudy day.
His head hurt. Despite the precautions he had been lectured through by the meds (and Minho, fussy guy he was), Thomas was out hauling wood for a man who had stayed back home to nurse his pregnant wife. The air had turned humid, and the other workers had started to retreat back inside.
He was about to head back himself when he felt the droplets. He cursed, holding the bundle to his chest as he ran across the field. Halfway to shelter he gave up. The wood was already drenched past saving.
All of a sudden it had tired him, running, and it was funny, in a way; he'd been doing that ever since he could remember. He was so tired. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be in bed, to take the weight off of his shoulders, waking up to sunlight and Minho and his laugh and the room they shared.
So Thomas stood there, bones heavy and body feverish, as the lightning flashed overhead, memories flooding back with every painful thud in his head. He had been hoping to never see another storm again in his life.
The wood had slipped from his grip long since. The sky kept on rumbling, and kept at it, and as he tried to make his way back he was suddenly gasping for air. He clutched his head and curled into himself. It felt better that way. Everything was so cold. Everything hurt. He could hear shouting from far away. Sloshes of water came nearer and nearer, but he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
He heard someone say his name, heard it again, felt hands grasp his face. Then nothing.
-
Little snippets of his memories, flashbacks of the maze, the lab. Teresa. He blinked out of his slumber.
"Thomas, Thomas, can you hear me? How d- guys!"
It was like he was in the maze all over again, lying still, waiting for the Changing. But he wasn't. He was in a room, his and Minho's, his brain helpfully supplied, and for a split second he thought, Teresa, but it was only Brenda. Everything was spinning. Slowly, he lifted his head further up the pillow. His head hurt like hell. But his throat - it throbbed like it had a life of its own. He wondered if the disease had finally gotten the better of him. Maybe it was better that way. He remembered Newt. Briefly, as he lay there, he felt an ache in his chest, even though he thought of it as hollow ever since, and Thomas knew he couldn't keep that terrible secret forever.
Brenda had crossed the room to wake Minho, who, from the looks of it, was dozing uncomfortably in a chair, and Frypan was getting up from the other bed he was sitting on. Eventually the strain was too much for Thomas, so he dropped back down, inwardly cursing when his head hit the pillow.
Not two seconds later did Minho reach the bed, followed by Frypan. "Thomas, man; you're alive?" Minho shot a, "What did I tell you, you shuckfaced idiot! The hell were you doing outside?"
Before Thomas could say anything, from a distance Brenda informed him: "You aren't even supposed to be up yet. You were out for, like, the whole day. I'm impressed." She turned around to look at him from the windowsill. "All that work caught up to you, and the weather didn't really help much." Trembling slightly, Thomas ran a hand down his face to hide his relief. He didn't know why he felt guilty. "Boy, did it catch up to you. Looks like the common cold to them." Pushing the boys out of the way, she ran a hand down his neck. "And apparently you're still burning up."
Minho looked like klunk. "A cold? This is straight up pneumonia, dude!" His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair. His hair was totally messed up. Minho's hair was never messed up. "Damn, I knew you've been acting weird." Frypan left the room, probably to spread the word. Thomas just blinked at them. He opened his mouth to retort. It's not like I'd known.
Nothing came out.
There was a moment of silence. Minho said, "Yeah... right."
His fingertips prickled with the sensation of fear as the panic washed over him. He darted his eyes back and forth between them, looking for answers. What -
Brenda sighed. "We had a feeling this was going to happen, Thomas. The docs poked inside your throat, said it swelled, closed up your vocal cords. From all that chill outside." She grimaced.
Well, at least I can breathe, Thomas thought. For now.
"Man, you're so gonna be stuck here like the human Little Mermaid," Minho sat on the bed and patted his knee. Noticing Thomas wanted to sit upright, Minho scooped him up and gently pushed him against the headboard. "Dizzy?" Thomas nodded and tried to get Minho to look at him. For how long, though?
"Hm?"
Thomas put his index fingers together and drew them apart.
"Oh. How long, Brenda?"
"They don't know for sure," Brenda smiled fondly. "Couple weeks should do it. Though I'm sure you'll be up and running before you're even able to speak. So don't worry. It'll come back." She smoothed his hair. Someone had come upstairs to fetch her, and Thomas waved her off. She looked towards him, concerned. He smiled. I'll be fine. She smiled back. Minho gave her a thumbs-up as she went out the door. Thomas made a pointed gesture. You too, Min.
"Shuck it Thomas; if you haven't noticed, it's still raining outside." He jerked a thumb outside. The window was trickling with rain. "Weird climate we got, non-stop since we found ya. No one's getting anything done in this weather." Minho smirked. "You think I'm leaving you alone? 'Cause someone's gotta look after my runner-boy." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Thomas rolled his eyes and tried to swallow. Minho brought a glass and some pills on the desk over, and Thomas gulped down as much water as he could, his throat constricting with difficulty.
He had slid down the bed once again and was starting to nod off, when he found himself reaching out, almost an instinct. A hand wrapped around his.
Thomas opened his eyes. Man, you look like crap, he channeled his thoughts to Minho.
Surprisingly, Minho said, "I look dashing, Thomas. You look worse."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. No, you don't.
"Of course I do."
How are you even talking to me?
"I'm a genius, Thomas. Piece of pie."
He raised the other eyebrow, doubting.
Minho leaned in. He spoke quietly. "I'm your right-hand man, Thomas." He looked unsure of himself, like he was telling something he shouldn't. "I know you enough, don't I?"
Thomas quirked his lips. Of course you do.
"Don't do that again, okay? You got me worried sick," and the way Minho said it formed an image in his mind, Minho talking to him until he stopped squirming in his sleep, mopping up his forehead, falling asleep by his side. Sorry.
"Yeah, you'd better be," Minho relaxed and leaned back. Thomas squeezed his hand. This sucks.
He squeezed back. "I know it does. Go to sleep."
No, you sleep first, was Thomas' attempt to get Minho to rest, but he was already floating off from the effects of the drugs.
-
The first four days were nothing but soup.
After Frypan delivered his third bowl of chicken broth that week, he gave in to his stomach, glared at Minho, and protested, Man, I'm tired of soup. As if on cue, his tummy growled in agreement. Minho tried to hide his laugh, and told the cook what Thomas had to say.
"Soup's easy to digest," Frypan set his tray down, and muttered, "'S also easy to make, too."
Aw, come on, he thought. By the time I get to eat real stuff I would've most likely forgetten how to even digest properly. Oh, how he longed for proper chunks of food.
Minho chomped on his BLT. "He's right though. I'm sure you'll get along, Tommy. Eat up."
Having settled the argument, Frypan turned to walk out the room. "Get better soon, bro, and you'll be eating good stuff in no time."
No sooner than he was out of sight did Thomas turn round to Minho, who was presenting him with half a sandwich.
He shook his head. Man, I can't eat it, that's yours. "What was that about boring soup?" No, you shank, I mean, what're you gonna eat? "Nah, don't worry 'bout me. I got it." You sure? "Just take the freaking sandwich, Thomas."
Thomas grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. Minho looked away then, and he wondered if he did something wrong. But as he blissfully munched through the whole thing with great effort (his throat pretty much still hurts), Minho yelled, "Hey, take it with your shucking soup, you idiot!"
-
It continued like that, people visiting him every so often, Brenda, Frypan, even Gally came by to check on him, probably wonders if my poor self's in shape enough to work, the bastard. He's grateful, though. Minho keeps breaking off bits of his lunch for him.
His fever was going down, and eventually Minho ran out of excuses to stay. Thomas didn't want to be alone, and he dreadfully missed Minho. Brenda gave him permission to step outside, "get some fresh air, but do not go helping anybody, do you get what I'm saying", and he had to pinky-promise her twice before she let him go. Mostly Thomas followed Minho around, having nothing he could do that wasn't 'physically straining' (come on Brenda), and watched him work.
Thomas hadn't made any attempts at talking, not with how Minho was providing for him. He sat around the work site and focused on relaxing, watching Minho from a distance. At times Minho would look over and catch his gaze and wave, and Thomas would beam back at him lazily. He was glad to have his best friend here with him.
-
Nightmares. The nightly routine.
He had them every night. Nothing had happened on the first few days he'd been sick; he'd been too tired to dream. But some nights later they'd started making a reappearance.
This time was different.
He was in the maze, all too familiar screeches echoing from the walls. The air seemed dustier than ever.
Thomas was lost again; he turned and turned every possible corner there was. Every dead end was just another hallucination, another face he couldn't save. Newt. Alby. Chuck. Teresa. Countless others. He could still hear their whispers. Sand crunched beneath his feet; paths narrowing with every step.
At the last moment when Thomas had given up, he rounded one final corridor, and halted abruptly. His face and eyes stung from the specks of grit gusting past him, and he had to squint, but there was no mistaking the muscled pair of arms as he stepped closer. But something was off.
Minho was kneeling, crouched on the floor, looking at his hands. He raised his head when he realized someone was approaching, and in his eyes Thomas could see the despair and hopelessness he had seen before from so many people, Gladers, but never from Minho. On the corner of his mouth there was a smear of blood.
Thomas saw a terrifying, sickening shadow loom behind his figure, and his heart stopped.
Before Thomas could run to him, the darkness consumed Minho. Something was holding him down. He thrashed violently, this can't be happening, not now, not ever -
Thomas woke up screaming his name, muted words over and over, and everything had seemed so real until the buzzing in his ears calmed down enough to notice Minho kneeling next to him, pinning him down. He was here. Thomas couldn't shucking trust anything; he flexed his fingers rapidly, as if to get rid of imaginary dust, and Minho laced their fingers together until his breathing regulated, and even then neither of them let go.
God, he was too weak. How he had survived this whole ordeal, he'd never know. Thomas turned away, shut his eyes before the tears fell. His throat ached. He should've died, he was supposed to die in the first place, and none of them would've ever had to suffer for him.
A hand touched his chin, forcing him to face Minho. He squeezed his eyes tighter. "Thomas, look at me. Look at me."
Someone was climbing into the bed. He pried his eyes open, and the boy was shaking his head. "Don't even think about it."
The tears finally won, and Thomas let out a shuddering sob. Minho must've seen something terrible in his eyes, and he pulled Thomas close, whispering, "I'm here, I'm right here. I'm still here. I'm not leaving you." He ran his knuckles across Thomas' cheekbones, brushing the tears away, and maybe Minho's face was wet too, but he believed him.
He drifted off to fingers combing through his hair.
They woke up in the late morning hours, tangled limbs and messy hair, and if Brenda noticed they were missing she hadn't come to get them. Thomas woke to a kiss on his forehead, the warmth beside him slipped away, and he was briefly confused, but his mind was too tired for second thoughts, and he fell back to sleep.
-
The third night after, it was Minho who woke up, and he slid under Thomas' covers. Thomas squirmed a bit, then went back to sleep. He didn't mind. Minho's presence was warm and calming, grounding him.
Ever since they escaped it had become only natural to move in together. Sharing a room after so many things had happened had seemed right to both of them.
But that night he dreamed of WICKED, poking and prodding inside his head. He dreamed of being manipulated, kicking and screaming, and Minho holding him down on the table, battered and sore, never once letting him go. But Minho was there when he woke, and he was alright, and all was well but then all of a sudden it wasn't.
-
After that he stuck around Minho (like it was the only thing he'd ever known to do), but he never got too close, hung back when he could. The past month was a mess. He was so happy he had failed to remind himself of what he had done, what he was capable of. He flinched at Minho's touch, the other boy seeming understanding but somewhat wounded. Thomas had never hated himself more. He slept alone, and would hear Minho getting ready for his morning run, and no sooner than he was out the door did Thomas shed his tears. He was getting too attached. He couldn't do this to Minho.
-
Two days later found them sitting by the beach, the salty breeze flowing all around them, and Thomas had almost come to terms with the situation.
They were sitting at the edge of the shore, the current touching the undersides of their outstretched legs. One wave went up Thomas' thigh. On reflex, his leg twitched hard, splashing water all over him and Minho, and he snorted uncontrollably.
"Aw, Thomas!" Minho flashed his teeth, and Thomas hoped the dark was enough to cover his blush. "Never would've thought you the ticklish type," and before Thomas could react to anything else Minho had tackled him and reached around Thomas to find every sensitive spot on his body. Thomas struggled with him, wheezing, and Minho laughed, carefree and childish and Thomas' chest ached from the sight. He reached down to push Minho away, and his hand found a lump. Minho winced.
Thomas pulled back apologetically. Oh, crap, I'm sorry -
"Don't worry your pretty self, Tommy, it's an old one - "
Thomas scrambled to get out from under him and tugged at his shirt. Minho reluctantly pulled up enough for him to see an ugly bruise fading to yellow right above his left hip among his scars, and he fretted. Why didn't you tell me - where did this come from?
There was the smallest amount of hesitation before Minho answered, "Just some work accident I got -"
No, no - Did I do this?
Minho's voice turned desperate. "Thomas, listen -"
But Thomas was long gone.
-
He went to the cliff. It gave him a sense of solitude, made him feel like he could never hurt anyone ever again. He plainly sat there, burying his face in his knees. Minho gave him until midday, then he came to find him.
He heard Minho's footsteps stop in front of him, and Thomas wanted to run to him, to hope, but there was nothing he could do but to refuse him. For a while they just remained there, unmoving. Minho spoke first. "Maybe you should be getting back, Thomas. Everyone's worried. Brenda's getting worried." There was a pause. His voice cracked. "I'm worried about you. Thomas, I am falling apart."
Thomas looked up at him then. "Come back. Please." Minho rubbed his face with his fists. "Buggin' hell. I'm not good at this, Thomas. It's not your shucking fault, I swear to it."
But everything was his fault. People died because of him. Minho got hurt because of him. So many times. This had to stop. He held up his arms. Stay away from me.
"And what makes you think I'm going anywhere?"
I'm not safe. Just - I killed - I -
Minho crouched in front of him, spoke softly, "What're you saying here, Thomas?"
"Newt. I killed him." He was startled by his own voice, hoarse from weeks of disuse. "Minho, please, - "
There was a long moment of silence. Thomas was shaking, he knew it, he knew he shouldn't have - "You shuckface," Minho laughed darkly. "Is that what this is about?" The tears he had desperately tried to hide streamed down his face, and Thomas shook his head, no, you don't understand -
Minho leaned in close, too close, get away - , and Thomas leaned back, forced himself to turn away.
"Thomas." His voice was affectionate, and Thomas wanted to burst into tears right there and then. "I saw the note."
Thomas' expression turned to shock, then disbelief. "Wha- when - so stay away - "
"It's not that, Thomas." Minho reached for his hands, and Thomas couldn't make himself move away. "It means he trusted you to do it more than anyone else." Minho looked away. "I trust you." Thomas was only half-listening, barely believing what he was hearing. "He's in a better place now. I miss him, Thomas, I miss him so shucking much, but he would've gone out either way. There's nothing to be sorry for, okay?"
Thomas was crying now, he could feel his own sobs. Minho wrapped his arms around him, and in that moment Thomas never wanted him to let go. "You're a good man, Thomas." His voice was soft, and Minho held Thomas like he might break into a million pieces. "I've seen it with my own eyes. Nothing will change that. Nothing will change the fact that I love you."
Thomas froze. Shook his head repeatedly. "You don't want me." It was barely a whisper. The tears threatened to fall once again. You think you do, but you don't. I don't deserve you. I can't keep you with me like this. I can't protect you. How could he put this into words, now that he had spent so much time in silence thinking about them? You deserve so much better. I don't know how. I can't do this to you. I can't lose you. Not now. Not ever. I love you.
Something must've shown though, because the widest grin appeared on Minho's face. "Say it." His voice was full of promises. "Say it, and we can make this work, Thomas. I'm sure of it."
He trusted him, he trusted Minho with everything he had, but he was shucking terrified he was going to shuck up this, this thing they had.
"Hey." He pulled Thomas close, kissed the top of his head. "We're gonna make this work, alright?"
Minho wanted to believe as much as he did. They could figure this out. Together.
Thomas nodded through his tears. He buried his head in Minho's arm and smiled for the first time in days.
"Brenda made you come up here, didn't she?"
"Well, with the way she keeps sending me those weird looks, I'm telling you, man, she knows!"
And maybe they weren't safe from themselves just yet, but Minho would keep him here, on his feet. And he'd keep Minho on his.
They'll be okay.