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Jaemin was no longer in his right mind.
It was only planted in the middle of the winding path to madness that he realized it. He stood upside down in a loop that whispered in his ear and beckoned his feet forward. It was an odd feeling, knowing that his brain was deteriorating and he was powerless to stop it. His feet marched on even when his dwindling reserve of reason revolted. No amount of deep breaths or counts to ten could stop him from reacting to every little inhale. Every twitch of motion or barely there promise of action. His body followed the commands of his impulses rather than his thoughts, just barely under the command of a man with tremors for hands and fury where there used to be compassion.
He spits venom where he normally wouldn't and gains hostility with every second he’s forced to speak and waste precious time that could be spent actually solving their problems. All Mark does is plan and talk and scheme as if WICKED knows anything other than violence. As if they'll understand anything other than blood and the horror of their jugular between Jaemin’s teeth as his hands dig in their stomachs with the knives they strapped onto themselves and believed would make them invincible. Red would stain their white jackets as he combs through flesh and viscera, uncovering the ivory of their bones just to snap the only part of them that could even remotely be considered pure–
Jaemin was not in his right mind.
His hands were red, red, red. Covered in so much crimson he couldn't see the patterns of his palms. The cries of his fellow gladers echoed in his ears. He could see their bodies, all around him in gore soaked piles. Their eyes glazed over, hands clutching to spears and other makeshift weapons that didn't save them in the end. Some so pristine it was clear their wielder was struck down before their first swing. He can feel the weight of it all and the laughter bubbling in his throat. If he hadn't botched that jump, he wouldn't be dealing with any of this at all. He wouldn't close his eyes and see the faces of every bloody shank he's lost since the sun refused to go down and the doors stubbornly stayed wide open. He wouldn't feel such glee when imagining himself knelt above the faces of WICKED and watching as they finally lose the light in their eyes and their very last breath escapes their putrid lips. He wouldn't see Renjun’s sacrifice play back in his mind and finally lose his grip on the sloppily concealed cackle he was holding back.
In the end, Renjun was right. He was right and he did what Jaemin failed to do. He succeeded by being smarter than him. Renjun was always smarter, that's why he threw himself into a herd of grievers with a smile on his face. The glimpse of their lives before had been enough for Renjun to make sure it stuck. After all, you can't exactly crawl yourself away from that one with nothing but a limp to show for it. Of course at the time, they thought the changing was just too much for him. But they should have given up when he did. God, he should have made sure he jumped head first when he had the chance. It's that thought that circles his brain as salty tears drain from his long lashes. As he smashes his fists into his head with his pearly whites on display as he laughs and laughs and laughs–
Jaemin was no longer sane.
His head ached. His palms were clean, his lifeline bold and easy to see. What a bloody joke. Inexplicably, he missed who he used to be. And wasn't that funny? He missed someone who barely existed for three years. He missed the person he scraped together after waking up with a blank mind surrounded by a group of other nameless shanks with the same empty memory issue. He may not have been whole but at least he had something. At least he had patience. At least he spoke with a kindness that felt so ingrained in his being he must have learned it long ago. He spoke with a cadence no other glader could copy and held himself as strongly as he could. He feels his heart squeeze now that he can properly acknowledge yet another piece of himself gone. Even if he still can't remember where it came from in the first place, or who he learned it from, or how.
Of course, it looks like he will never remember now. Not when there's supposedly a chip in his brain that's preventing him from recovering anything. His only option would be to wait it out and see what comes to him with time, but he can feel that slipping through his fingers like water. Renjun told him that it was better to die than to go home, and at the time he didn't understand. He didn't get it, because he couldn't remember. Now that he's been to the scorch, now that the Flare has entered his lungs and traveled to his brain, he thinks he knows the panic that consumed Renjun in that moment. As he slowly decays and loses himself he feels what Renjun must have felt at the end.
He doesn't fear death, he never really has. Death has been so real to him for the past three years that he's made peace with it. The grievers stalking just outside the walls that kept him “safe” were always a reminder of his fate. His fellow gladers dropping one by one were reminders that he was mostly only alive because of luck. When he threw himself from that wall, the fear only came when he hit the ground still breathing. But he hadn't imagined it would end like this, back then. He didn't know he would lose himself to a virus invading his mind and turning him into everything he never was. He didn't know it would be so terrifying to blink and have no clue why you're doing what you're doing, all you know is that you nearly bit at someone's fingers in a fit of rage. Renjun had moments where he looked so lost towards the end. He wonders if that's what he looks like when his mind suddenly snaps back into his body where his hands are somehow twisted in Mark’s shirt where he pushed him against the wall. Or maybe it's how he looks when they call out a name and it takes a moment to register that it is him they are calling for. Renjun was probably lost in fragmented memories, trying to figure out the right path after getting his whole world turned upside down. But for him, he was just an animal waiting to be put down out of his misery.
The only thing keeping him alive in that bloody maze after being dragged back to safety with a buggin’ klunk leg, was the notion that whatever was outside would be better than their pitiful existence. And even that was barely enough to keep him day to day. So to find out that this was the miserable real life experience? Well it was just the cherry on the shucking cake.
Jaemin was infected with the Flare.
He had come to peace with it as a fact. At first there had been careful indifference, denial. So what if a rat looking man dressed in all white told them they were all given the sickness? There was no reason to trust WICKED, no reason to believe the very people playing around in their brains and making them see things not even there. The chances were that it was all a manipulation tactic. But, tell a bunch of people stuck in survival mode to march or die and they'll march. It doesn't matter if they believe you, not if they have no other options.
In the maze, all he had known was stress, but he was familiar with it. He knew the conditions of his home and was prepared to endure day by exhausting day. He did not know the Scorch. So when his temper got worse and his patience declined, he didn't think much of it. When his frustration mounted it felt appropriate given the situation. The maze was supposed to be the end and yet he was still being yanked around by WICKED’s will, hiking unending miles towards a “safe haven” while the sun beamed at him with a force he might have known once upon a time but no longer remembered.
He had to reassure himself more and more with each crank they came across. Kept telling himself that he wasn't crazy, that he would never act like that. He would not end up like them, shivering to himself in a corner and gouging people’s eyeballs out like he's searching for a treat behind them. With every reminder he gave himself, it got harder to believe it, not easier. He could feel himself get snappier with each word that came out of his mouth and he'd be slower to close it each time. An itch appeared in his brain, so slight he wasn't completely convinced it was there. But it would get worse as he felt his grip on himself loosening. It spread like watercolor in his brain, the picture strengthening with each layer until he couldn't deny it anymore.
The worst thing about living, about being human, was that even when you thought all hope was lost a flicker of it would still light at the worst of times. It was like seeing the tiniest ember when out of resources and in desperate need of a fire to make it through the night. That one spark freezing you in place and making you think that maybe, just maybe you could do it. Just for the wind to blow and snuff it out. So when Janson stood with his rat-like nose and announced that some of them were immune, he couldn't help it. With each name that was said, with each poor shank that fell to the ground in tears, part of him hoped that he wasn't on the list. That he was one of the many, someone immune put in the maze to be learned from for the cure, not a regular guy joining the masses just to keep things interesting. But that part of him was small. A whisper compared to the knowing resounding within him. His name echoed through the room and that part of him died for good. His shoulders slumped forward into acceptance and all he could do was smile. He was a crank and soon there would be none of him left.
Jaemin was not immune.
He told them he wasn't afraid of the flare. He didn't tell them that he was afraid of what the flare would turn him into. He wasn't confident they'd believe there to be a difference. He thought of the past gone cranks he saw in the scorch and knew that above all else he couldn't become one of them. He also knew that there was only one person he could ask to make sure of it. There were technically two options, but Mark was the only one he had even a fraction of chance with. He wasn't sure how he would get the message across. Maybe he could write him a little note and make sure the others never caught sight of it. Markie would be surprised, but he could handle it, he'd be fine. He had to be. And maybe that was not fair. But was any of this?
Jeno…he couldn’t ask Jeno. That boy was as stupidly loyal as a dog. If given a gun he'd sooner bark at the universe and aim at the face of God than to land the final blow on a friend begging for mercy. They hadn't known it in the maze running down endless corridors of stone and moss. They hadn't known it when Jeno sat bedside as the medjacks did what they could for Jaemin's busted leg. They hadn't known it when a girl laid in the box as “the last one ever”. They hadn't known it when one raced in the maze searching for an answer that had been there all along while the other did his best to maintain order in a world that was truly coming to an end after seeming like it would last forever. But they were the last ones, the last of the first to ever touch the dew of the glade beneath their fingertips. There was no Renjun to lead them with his infamous snark. No Gally to stick his obnoxious snout in everyone's business. It was just the two of them and the greenie who showed up one month and unbeknownst to everyone, marked the beginning of the end.
He wouldn't make Jeno do it, couldn't. He'd probably fight till Jaemin didn't even know his own name anymore. And even then he wouldn't do it. He'd look at him the same way he always did, an expression neither of them ever wanted to name. Never had the courage to. And for the first time, Jaemin wouldn't feel anything but contempt. He couldn't bear to let that happen, to watch from inside his own body as love became hatred.
Jeno was immune.
It was kind of funny, considering Jeno was always his better half. Jeno never gave up, not really. He had his moments of hopelessness, it was hard not to in their reality. Anyone who made it any time in the maze learned to overcome it and move on, but Jeno got over his bad days in a way Jaemin never could. Maybe it was because the real difference between them was that Jeno wasn't a coward, and Jaemin had never been anything but. He wasn't afraid of a lot of things, but what did it matter if the one thing he was afraid of was living. The past four years of his life—the only time he could really remember existing—all he had wanted to do was stop.
It was Jeno who kept pushing. He was the one that ran where nobody else dared to follow, no one but Mark anyway. He was the one that backed the greenie when no one else would. He believed in getting out of the maze one day, even when he ran the same recurring patterns for three years. Jaemin didn't give a damn if those slintheads in WICKED were throwing around the leader title just to mess with their heads. He doesn't care if he was technically Renjun’s right hand and should have stepped up after their gruesome “escape”. To him, Jeno had always been the leader. It wasn't about following the roles given to them out of the blue. It wasn't even about the council they had made as their attempt to make some sort of sense out of their life in the glade. It was about Jeno always being the first to take a step forward. A step into the maze, into the answer, into freedom and whatever else followed. Never afraid to disappear into the fog of uncertainty that was their future.
It was Jeno who was good and pure and believing. It's the people like him that take action when no one else will. And Jaemin knows that when the end comes it won't be cruelty that leads Jeno to look him in the eyes and hold him like he is the same person that laid by his side on the glade. It'll feel like it. It'll crush whatever heart he has left beating. But it will be Jeno’s false belief in loyalty and perseverance that takes away what little he has left.
Jeno would never have the Flare.
Jeno won't have to go to war with himself every day, fighting for control over everything he used to take for granted. He won't have to experience losing grip on basic concepts, mind blanking at a simple four plus six. He won't have to intimately understand how someone of any kind could go from following the daily slog of life to crawling around on broken nails and dragging small animals home like it's a delicacy. The one thing he had always known was himself, so sure even when the only puzzle piece he had was his own name. And he'll continue to know himself, to not have to question the inner workings of his own head. When nothing else is there, when nothing else makes any sense, Jeno will always have himself to rely on.
Mark was more like Jaemin, though. Unsure and trying to make sense of everything. He attempted to craft himself with each question he asked, each discovery he made. Even if Jaemin was the only one capable of being infected, Mark knew what it was like to be confused in his own head and not recognize every part of him. Mark also knew more about the Flare than he let on, Jaemin could tell. After the changing, things had been slipping through the cracks. If he really worked so closely with WICKED to create every hardship they'd gone through, he had to know just a little bit more about the flare. About the way it deconstructed every person it touched. He knew it was awful, knew it so much that at one point he agreed that putting over a hundred children his age into mazes of hell was worth it for the naive possibility of saving the world. Unfortunately, even with the memory wipe, his savior complex followed him. He still believed he could save everyone; he just no longer believed that WICKED was good. But Jaemin hoped. Because Mark knew. And after all Jaemin has done for him, after all he has helped, and believed and followed, Mark had to do this one thing for him. He would have to realize that it was the only way to truly save him. Jaemin would lay his heart bare and drop to his knees. Mark would take a deep breath and apologize for it all by taking the only step to redemption possible.
Jeno would not like it. He would not go a second without protest until the deed was done and Jaemin's body was cold. But he had the time to accept. To wake up every morning and get used to life without Jaemin in it. One day he would understand. He would look back and it would click that even before Mark gave in to his wish, Jaemin was already dead. Even if, no when, they defeated WICKED, the flare would still ravage Jaemin’s brain. There would be no cure. There would be no chance for him unless they locked him up with a collar and called him the village pet.
Jaemin had nothing left for himself. No desire to live, to try and fix what was written in stone. There was no point in hoping for his own future. But until his moment came, he could help the others. He could be the stepping stone to their peace. He could provide cover fire as they ran. He could be the one to throw himself at a guard or two as a distraction. He could be the one to pull the pins on the grenades and stay behind to make sure they hit their marks.
He had no problem with giving. All he's been doing is giving. “The glue”, they called him. Always there to fix conflicts, to give that second opinion, to show the way for those who won't hear it from anyone else, to put together anyone broken with a roll of bandages and crossed fingers. And he may not be able to do much of that anymore. He escalates situations more than he squashes them now, and he needs more guidance than he's ever been able to give it. But he can still be that extra punch that they need, the last bit of power to help them hop the fence. He can be their decoy, he can take the bullet. Wherever they need him, he will be. WICKED will pay for their crimes and his friends will make it somewhere beyond this mess. He'll stare at their backs as they reach the place every person who stepped foot in that maze wished they could arrive. He won't be able to follow, won't be able to know what it's like out there. But at least the last thing he will know will be their rise.
Mark and Jeno would forge the future, whatever it may be, whoever it with. They would reach a day Jaemin could never even hope to see. The trio would become a duo and they would mourn. They would mourn the simplicity of knowing the exact time food shows up in a box, without having to worry about scavenging for supplies. They would mourn knowing the exact time the sun rises and the clouds bring rain. They would mourn sleeping under the stars and knowing the exact way the next day would play out. They would mourn all the people they've lost and the understanding that they would be able to provide. They would grieve until the hurt got better and they lived their lives as if their new future was all they had known at all. They'd only be reminded of the truth in those small moments alone on their sleeping pile for the night–or maybe they'd manage to have real beds. But they would lay there alone with the silence of night in their ears and they'd weep of sorrow…or maybe just relief.
And Jeno, he would miss him. At least, that's what he hopes. Because no matter what he can't seem to get rid of that pesky feeling. It leaks into his brain and worms its way into his heart. And as much as he wants all to go well for his friends, for this all to end before he truly loses himself to madness, he still wants Jeno to bleed. He wants Jeno to miss him, to stare up at the night sky and remember the feel of his hand in the evening wind. In his mind, Jeno would stare at the dazzling stars and see echoes of his smile. Jeno would laugh and remember what it was like to have a second chuckle weaved in with his own. Jeno would wipe away his own tears and remember what it was like to just sit together and feel. To feel and feel and feel. Even if there was never really time to label or examine everything for what it was and acknowledge it. Jeno would regret a lot of things that he could not change as he missed and mourned. He would regret the very things unsaid and the time that felt underutilized. He wouldn't give himself any grace, despite the fact things hardly go picture perfect when the world is at its end and everyday brings the opportunity to die to monsters or the people controlling them. And every time he thought about it, it would be scrubbed red and raw. A wound constantly scabbed over and peeled back again. But he would be alive. He would find out what it was like to be the first to take even more steps in a diseased world. He would move on and function with a thought other than just “survive WICKED”. He would think of him and hurt, but the love would still be stronger. He would love his past and his present and his future, because he would be alive to do so.
It was really only that thought that kept Jaemin going. It was the one thing able to kick him out of his trances. He could let go of the bloodlust and the misery when he remembered it. He could shake off the jitters, wipe the crazed look off his face. He could steady his hands to the best of his ability and focus on the one thing even remotely in his control. Keeping everyone, keeping Jeno safe. He would use all he had left until he was nothing but a rag, a candle begging to be put out. Because he was the cursed one and Jeno was not. Because he was infected and Jeno was not. Because it was fated for one of them to die and the other to survive. Because it was written in their DNA which of them was which. Because Jeno had to live. Because he would make sure of it. Jeno would live to see thousands of tomorrows and sunsets and rainbows. Jeno would live to drink water thousands of times and eat thousands of meals and see thousands of things. Jeno would live.
Jeno would live.