Yas⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Thank God for Teresa.

She's stationed at the strange metal door Thomas and Minho had discovered. Chuck stands beside her, clutching a spear that's almost too big for him, eyes darting nervously between the keypad and the battle unfolding.

You know he's safe with her.

Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's some unspoken understanding between the only two girls who ever had to survive in a Glade full of boys. Maybe it's pure respect. Either way, you don't have to worry about Chuck.

Which is good, because you are in serious trouble.

"Thomas!" Teresa shouts over the chaos. "There's a code! Eight numbers!" Of course there is, because apparently escaping the Maze isn't dramatic enough without a secret password surrounded by a pack of mechanical nightmares.

You stagger backward toward the edge of a jagged drop in the stone floor, boots scraping dangerously close to the precipice. A Griever thrashes in front of you, its massive metal body convulsing violently. Your spear is buried deep in the side of its' head.

The creature shrieks, a horrifying blend of metal grinding and animal agony. Its' limbs snap wildly as it tries to reach you. Sweat pours down your face, stinging your eyes. You shove the spear down deeper.

"Stay down, you piece of—" You grit your teeth. The Griever lashes out with a bladed limb, sparks flying as it slams into the stone beside your head.

"Uhhh—!" Minho's voice cuts through the combat, somewhere to your left. "Seven! One! Five! Two!" He recites breathlessly. "Uh—! Six! Four!" A second Griever suddenly drops from the wall above like a spider, heading directly for Minho.

"Heads up!" Newt shouts too late. Minho disappears under the writhing mass of metal limbs. Jeff doesn't hesitate. He charges forward with a yell, driving a spear through the creature's skull with a wet crunch.

The Griever spasms violently, its' claws scraping against the floor as it collapses. Minho shoves it off with a grunt, scrambling to his feet, but Jeff doesn't get the chance to celebrate.

"Jeff!" You shout as another Griever lunges from the shadows and hooks a serrated arm around his torso. He barely has time to cry out before the machine yanks him backward across the stone floor.

His fingers scrape desperately at the ground. The scream that tears from his throat is horribly raw. The Griever drags him straight back into the darkness. There's the sound of tearing fabric. Then flesh. Then nothing.

"Minho! What's the sequence? Come on!" Chuck shouts, and the sheer panic in his voice sends a surge of adrenaline barreling through your veins.

Behind you, something grabs your arm. You whirl instinctively. It's Newt. He yanks you backwards, and a split second later, a Griever's stinger slams directly into the spot you'd been standing. Stone explodes beneath the impact, and you stare at the crater, your stomach flipping.

"Shuck." You mutter.

"Try not to die." He pants.

The remaining Gladers are pushed closer together now, forced back into the metal door as more Grievers crawl along the towering walls around you. The machines move like predators closing in. There's nowhere left to run.

"Uhh—" Minho gasps, his voice shaking with exhaustion. "Six, four, eight, three!" He slams another spear into a Griever lunging toward the group. "You got it?" He shouts desperately.

"Keep holding!" Thomas yells from the door. A Griever leaps at Newt. Its' jaw snaps around his spear, and the weapon splinters clean in half. You move without thinking.

You always do.

Your hand shoves Newt behind you as you step forward, leveling your spear towards the creature's snapping jaw. Newt's hands grab at your waist from behind, steadying you as claws swipe inches from your face.

Then,

DING

A chime rings out from the door behind you. The Maze begins to move. Stone walls from either side begin to grind inward. The sound is deafening.

Grievers scream as the stone crushes down on them, metal limbs snapping and twisting under the immense pressure. Oil and dark fluids splatter across the floor.

Too close.

You wrench your spear free and hurl it with everything you have. The weapon flies straight into a Griever's open mouth. It staggers backward just as the walls slam together.

You're dragged away just in time for the massive metal doors to slam shut with thunderous conclusion. Darkness swallows everything, and for a moment, the only thing you can hear is your own ragged breathing.

Is this it?

Are you free?

You realize Newt is still holding you. His arms are tight around your waist. He never let go after pulling you back. Somehow, in the pitch black, that brings a strange flicker of comfort.

The ground begins to rumble in a way that reminds you of the Box, and you instinctively grab onto the fabric of his shirt as the entire room shakes beneath your feet.

"Easy." He murmurs.

A blinding white light floods the chamber as another door slowly creaks open. You squint against the brightness, watery eyes blinking in adjustment.

You turn, and for a second, you and Newt just look at each other. It hits you that you're still clutching him, and your face heats instantly. You pull away a little too quickly, stumbling to catch yourself.

Right.

Near death experiences apparently aren't enough to cancel out embarrassment. You clear your throat and turn away before he can say anything.

You find Chuck. Your hands immediately start checking him over. His arms. His shoulders. His precious face. He squirms, tapping at your wrists.

"I'm good." He promises. You nod once, the relief loosening the tightness of your chest. Across the chamber, Teresa pushes cautiously against the newly opened door. It groans as it swings wider, revealing a dim hallway beyond.

Thomas steps forward first. One by one, the rest of you follow. Your hand closes around Chuck's as you guide him through the unfamiliar doorway.

The hallway is unnaturally long. Pipes snake across the ceiling and walls in tight clusters, humming faintly over unseen machinery. The air smells sterile and cold. Nothing like the damp stone of the Maze.

Your grip on Chuck tightens without you realizing it. Your hands are shaking. You glance toward Thomas at the front of the group. He looks back over his shoulder at the same moment.

Neither of you speaks.

You give a small nod.

Thomas nods back.

The group starts walking. Your boots echo down the hall as the silence stretches on. Everything is happening too fast. You escaped the Maze. You survived the Grievers. You've found the way out.

This is everything you've ever wanted since that stupid Box lifted you into the Glade: Escape. Change. Freedom. So why does your heart feel so tight?

The hallway ends at a seemingly regular door. Above it glows a neon sign that says 'EXIT'. Frypan squints at it, muttering a disbelieving 'seriously?'

The group hesitates, exchanging uncertain glances as if silently deciding who should be the first to open it. Thomas eventually steps forward. He places a hand on the handle, pauses, then pushes the door open.

The smell hits you first: Blood.

The room beyond looks like something out of a nightmare. Bodies are slumped against the walls and sprawled across the floor. Dark streaks of blood smear the white surfaces like someone attempted to escape, but failed.

You step forward slowly, and something pulls your attention to a window off to your right. There's another room behind it, filled with what seems to be white walls and stillness.

Then, your eyes adjust. Two shapes lie on metal tables, covered by thin white sheets. They're too motionless. Too familiar in shape. You take a step closer.

The glass is smudged. Your reflection stares back: Someone you barely recognize. You lean in anyway, squinting past it. Trying to make sense of what you're seeing.

The vent above the tables hums to life. The corner of a sheet lifts. Just barely. Just enough. You see a hand. You don't see all of it, but you don't need to.

You jerk back from the glass like it's burned you, a harsh gag erupting up your throat as you look away. You don't need to look again to know who's there:

Ben and Alby.

Your fingers crush painfully around Chuck's hand, pulling him with you. No once speaks as you move deeper into the facility. Hallways branch off in every direction.

Through glass walls, you glimpse rooms filled with machines you don't understand. Bodies lie everywhere. Some in lab coats, and some clutching weapons. It looks like a battlefield.

Eventually, you reach a larger room. This one is worse. Chairs are overturned. Bullet holes decorate the walls. More bodies in white coats are scattered across the floor like dominos. The air smells like burnt wiring and gunpowder.

Everyone slowly spreads out, examining the room in stunned silence. You find yourself drifting toward a row of strange machines along the wall, running your fingers lightly over the cold metal.

"Hello." A voice crackles over the speakers, and you jerk your head up. "My name is Dr. Ava Paige." A screen flickers to life across the room. The video shows a pristine looking older woman in a lab coat, standing in this very room. Behind her, scientists rush frantically back and forth. Their panic is visible, even through the grainy footage. "I'm Director of Operations of the World In Catastrophe Killzone Experiment Department."

"W... I... C... K... E... D..." You whisper under your breath.

"If you're watching this," The woman continues calmly. "That means you've successfully completed the Maze Trials. I wish I could be there in person to congratulate you, but circumstances seem to have prevented it." Behind her, several scientists begin rushing for the exits. "I'm sure by now you must all be very confused. Angry. Frightened. I can only assure you that everything that's happened to you, everything we've done to you, it was all done for a reason." She pauses. "You won't remember, but the sun has scorched out world."

"Oh my god." Teresa whispers as the screen shifts. Images rapidly flood the projection: Cities burning beneath a massive, merciless sun. Crops turned to dust. Entire landscapes reduced to ash.

"Billions of lives lost to fire. Famine. Suffering on a global scale." Paige says. "The fallout was unimaginable." The footage changes again. Now, the images are worse. People screaming. Hospitals overflowing. Chuck squeezes closer to you.

"It's okay." You whisper to him.

"What came after was worse. We called it the Flare. A deadly virus that attacks the brain. It is violent. Unpredictable. Incurable, or so we thought. In time, a new generation emerged that could survive the virus. Suddenly, there was a reason to hope for a cure, but finding it would not be easy. The young would have to be tested, even sacrificed inside harsh environments where their brain activity could be studied. All in an effort to understand what makes them different." She exhales slowly. "What makes you different."

Everything clicks.

The Maze. The Grievers. The trials. They've been watching you. You're more than just a prisoner. You are an experiment. You are all experiments.

Paige voice keeps talking, but the words begin to blur underneath the roar of your thoughts. Your hand squeezes tighter around Chuck's. You barely register the continued chaos on screen until a sharp bang cracks through the speakers.

Your head snaps up. Dr. Paige lies slumped on the floor. The camera continues recording as scientists scream in the background. You don't let chuck see it.

"Don't look." You grab his shoulders and force his eyes away from the screen. Before anyone can say anything else, a door hisses open to your left. A long, quiet hallway stretches beyond it.

The exit, maybe.

It's everything you've fought for.

Everything you've nearly died for.

"Is it over?" Chuck whispers.

"She said we were important." Newt is the first to speak. You look at him. He looks completely stunned, eyes moving between Thomas and you as if the two of you are somehow supposed to understand all of this. "What're we supposed to do now?"

"I don't know," Thomas exhales slowly. He looks unsettlingly uncertain. His eyes meet yours: Two fighters who've spent every day clawing toward escape together. Now, you're standing at the edge of it. When his gaze flicks away from yours, it points to the open hallway. "But let's get out of here."

"No."

The word cuts through the room like a blade.

Everyone turns.

Gally stands at the far end of the room. A gun tremors violently in his hand. Your heart stutters with relief first. Relief that he's alive. That he gets to escape with everyone else. Then, the dread lands.

"Gally—!" Thomas starts, taking a step forward.

"Don't." Teresa grabs his arm before he can get too close, whispering urgently. "He's been stung." You look closer, and the blood in your veins turns to ice.

Gally's eyes are wide, glassy, and unfocused. Dark veins crawl up his neck, almost black beneath his skin. Tears stream down his face as he struggles to hold the gun steady.

"You can't leave." He whimpers.

"We did." Thomas says gently, raising his hands in halfway surrender. "Gally, we're out. We're free."

"Free?" Gally chokes on a sob. "You think we're free out there? No." He tightens his grip on the gun. "No. There's no escaping from this place." Several Gladers step backward. You slowly wrap your arms around Chuck, pulling him closer into your side.

"Gally," Your voice comes out softer than you'd expected. "You're not thinking straight." His eyes flick toward you. "We can help you. Just— Just put down the gun. Please." The word 'please' feels strange in your mouth. You can't remember the last time you said it. If you ever have.

When this is over, when you're finally out, maybe things will be different. Maybe you'll learn to say 'please' more often. 'Thank you' too. Maybe you'll be kinder. Maybe the world outside the Maze is still the sort of place where people say things like that.

You will be kinder. You want to be. You want to gentler than you are. You will. You promise it to yourself. Someday, you and Chuck will look back and laugh at all of this.

Maybe—

"I belong to the Maze." Gally's voice snaps your hopeful thoughts apart. His hands tremble around the weapon as more tears rush down his face. "We all do."

A gunshot ruptures the room. Chuck jerks violently out of your arms. For a split second, nothing makes sense. The sound is still ringing in your ears when his weight disappears and his body stumbles forward.

Right in front of Thomas.

Another sound slices through the air. Minho's spear flies across the room and punches straight through Gally's chest. His eyes widen and the gun slips from his fingers with a hollow clatter. He drops to his knees, gasping, before collapsing onto the floor,

But you aren't looking at him anyway.

Your world is narrowed to one thing:

Chuck.

Chuck's still standing. That's the first thing your mind clings to. He's upright, and upright must mean he's uninjured. He's okay. He has to be okay.

He sways.

A dark red bloom spreads slowly across the front of his shirt.

Your mind scrambles, reaching for something that makes more sense, and suddenly, you're somewhere else entirely: You're with Chuck, standing in the gardens of the Glade with red berry juice splattered all over his shirt. You're laughing at him while he complains, urging him to relax while you wipe the stains away.

Oh, but this isn't berry juice, is it?

This isn't something you can wipe away.

His knees buckle and you lunge forward to catch him before he hits the ground, lowering him as carefully as you can. His head falls into your lap. You barely notice the broken glass digging into your knees as you drop to the floor with him.

"Chuck? Chuck? Shuck— J-Just hold on—" Your hands shake as you cradle his head, fingers brushing through his hair. Thomas is beside you in an instant, pressing both hands against the wound. "Look at me," You plead. "Look at me. You're going to be fine, okay?"

"Chuck, hey," Thomas says urgently, patting his cheek. Chuck's breath comes out uneven and shallow. "Look at us, okay? You just hang on. You hear me?"

"Thomas," Chuck whispers. Then his eyes shift towards you. Your name leaves his lips softly, and the pain in your chest cracks wide open. His mouth curves into the faintest smile.

Chuck slowly reaches into his pocket. His hand shakes as he pulls something out. It's the small wooden figure. The one he'd been carving. He tries to hold it out toward you, but his arm trembles, faltering half way.

"Hey— Hey— I've got you." Your voice breaks apart as you grab his wrist before it drops, guiding it back up. "You don't have to— Just— Keep your strength, okay?

"I made it better."

"I know." You choke out, but you don't know. You haven't looked at the figurine. Your eyes are glued to his face instead. "It's so beautiful, Chuck."

"I'm not scared anymore." He hiccups, gasping. "You were always here."

"What?" You whimper, shaking away your tears. "I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? Neither are you." Chuck looks between you and Thomas, then presses the carving into Thomas' hand instead.

"No. No, Chuck." Thomas shakes his head, his voice stern despite the trembling. "You're gonna give that to them yourself—"

"Take it." Chuck insists. He shoves it into Thomas' palm, forcing his fingers closed around the carving. Then, Chuck looks up at you. He leans weakly into your touch as your fingers continue combing through his hair. "Thank you." He murmurs softly. "Thank you."

His body relaxes suddenly. His chest rises once more, falls, then never comes back. You don't move. You just feel the weight of his head resting on your lap.

"No." Thomas voice cracks. "Chuck?" He grabs the boy's shoulders, shaking him gently. "Chuck! Hey! Come on!" Thomas' head drops against Chuck's blood soaked chest as he begins to sob.

You still haven't breathed. You stopped with Chuck. Your lungs burn, and your vision is so blurred with tears that the room disappears entirely.

Then, suddenly, air crashes into your chest.

You inhale sharply.

You blink.

Everything shatters.

A squeaky sob rips from your throat as your body curls around Chuck. You clutch him with all your strength, arms wrapping around him as if holding him hard enough might somehow keep him here.

"No— Come on—" You choke. The words barely sound like words. Just broken sounds spilling out between sobs. "No, Chuck— Stay. Please, just stay." His head slips closer to you. "Stop it!" You wail. "Stop! This isn't funny. Please, please, Chuck—"

He doesn't move.

He doesn't react.

He's gone,

And it's entirely your fault.

Do you see what you've done? You were supposed to protect him. He was the one person in the world you were never supposed to fail, and now, you have. This is what happens when you break the rules. This is what happens when you fight too hard.

You did this.

He's dead because of you.

You should've held him tighter. You should've been the one who moved instead. You should be the one bleeding out on the ground. Not him. Not Chuck.

Your fingers tighten in his hair until your knuckles ache. It should hurt him, but he doesn't react. He never will again, and it's entirely your fault. Look at what you've done to him.

His eyes are open, but there's nothing in them anymore. The brightness that used to live there, the constant curiosity and stubborn hope, has vanished.

Blood has soaked through the front of his shirt and smeared across your hands. Your arms. Your clothes. It stains everything. You can feel it cooling against your skin.

What have you done?

Somewhere far away, sirens begin to wail. Boots pound against the floor, but you can't hear them clearly. You can't hear anything except the sound of your own heart breaking.

"Get them to the chopper!" A rough pair of hands slam over your shoulders and rip you backward. Away from him. Away from your Chuck.

"No!" You thrash instantly, your entirely body snapping to life. "No!" Masked strangers drag you across the floor. Your boots scrape uselessly against the ground as you twist and claw at their arms. "We can't leave him here!" You scream. "Please! We can't leave him here!"

They don't stop. It's like they can't even hear you. You wrench yourself free, just long enough to hit the ground. You scramble forward on your hands and knees. Broken glass embeds in your palms. You don't feel it. You don't feel anything, but the burning need to get back to him.

"Take her legs!" They're on you again. Grabbing. Lifting. Dragging. Your voice dissolves into something unrecognizable, and you fight with everything you have.

It's not enough.

You're never enough.

The air changes. Blinding sunlight floods your vision and hot wind brushes your face. You're dragged out of the building and into a world you've never seen before. Sand stretches endlessly beneath a massive sky.

You're outside.

You're out.

You don't care.

They shove you toward a waiting helicopter, and panic surges all over again. You twist sharply, wrenching free enough to lunge for the open door.

You need to go back.

"He's still there!" You rasp as you fight your way toward the building. Strong arms catch you mid-lunge. Thomas and Newt. You slam hard into the frame of the helicopter as they drag you in.

Wind roars through the open cabin, whipping hair across your face as the ground begins to fall away. You shove, nails digging into fabric, skin, and anything you can reach. Newt swears under his breath as he locks his arms around your waist and hauls you backwards with full force.

"Stop it!" He snaps, his voice just as wrecked as yours. "You can't go back!"

"Yes I can!" Your movements are frantic as your body strains against his grip. "He can't be alone— He— He doesn't like it— He—" Your words break into barely coherent sobs. "Please, Newt— Please— Just let me—" The helicopter jerks upward. The ground drops faster.

"You can't." His voice is low. Strained. He says your name like it hurts and spins you, forcing you to face him. One arm locks your down while the other grips your chin. "Look."

"No!" You shake your head weakly. "No— He's just waiting f-for me—"

"Look."

"I don't want to—"

"Look."

Something in his tone makes it impossible not to.

Your eyes drag along the open side of the helicopter. The Maze stretches below: Endless walls carved into the desert, twisting in every direction.

From here, it looks both enormous and small. The Glade. The Maze. The place that once felt like the entire world. Now, it's only a piece of something much bigger. Your throat feels raw from screaming. Exhaustion crashes down on you as you force yourself to slow your breathing.

Chuck should've seen this.

Your body goes slack in Newt's arms, and his grip loosens slightly, but he doesn't let go. Your eyes drift across the cabin. Thomas is staring at you. The small wooden figurine rests in his hands.

Your chest caves in.

On your way to school, every accidental brush of his hand against your knuckles felt like touching a live wire - and when you arrived, he even had the audacity to sneak his arm around yours to ‘help’ guide your hands when you fumbled with Laurie’s diaper. His warm fingers covered your own as he showed you how to fasten the tabs properly, later on gently correcting your grip with a murmured reminder about proper neck support.

Sure, those were probably great skills to know for the future - responsible parenting, proper support, all that bullshit.

But fuck. His touch lingered. It lingered to the point where every careless brush of his fingers felt like it burned something invisible into your skin, your nerves refusing to calm down long after he had already pulled away.

And it wasn’t like touch was unusual between the two of you. Quite the opposite, actually. You had always been like this - casual, comfortable, half-draped over each other during movie nights, bumping shoulders in hallways because you were always just a little too close, stealing fries off the same tray without asking - because there had never been a need to. It had never been a big deal. Never.

But today?

Today felt different, and you found yourself seriously considering throwing yourself into your beloved fountain outside the school just to cool off. Maybe drown a little, too. You had not decided on that yet.

Although, realistically, you would probably need help with that - and you were definitely not in the mood to explain to Stu why you required assistance with your own hypothetical demise.

So when the lunch bell finally rang, you wasted no time.

Over the last few hours, you had been holding Laurie so tightly against your chest that, had she been a real infant, the poor thing would have suffocated long ago. Now, you promptly shoved the doll into Randy’s arms the second he so much as glanced your way, using both her and his brief moment of confusion as the perfect distraction to make your escape.

Because if he touched you one more time - or looked at you with those eyes - you were fairly certain your brain would short-circuit on the spot.

You needed a minute. One where your thoughts were not constantly tripping over themselves. Some time to breathe - and preferably support from the only person in your friend group capable of being serious for longer than ten seconds, and who wasn’t named Randy Meeks.

Fumbling for your flip phone, you pulled it out of your back pocket and typed quickly, your thumbs moving faster than your brain could keep up.

Restroom. Emergency. Now.

You sent it to Sidney without a second thought or clarification. 

The girls’ restroom - the only place where Randy couldn’t follow, and therefore the only place where you were currently not in immediate danger of completely losing your mind.

A moment later, you pushed the door open, stepping inside and exhaling shakily, your heart still beating far too fast for something as stupid as a school project.

Now you just had to wait for Sid. 

And try, very hard, not to think about the way Randy’s hands had felt on yours. Or how they felt when he held you this morning. Or how soft his jaw had been under your lips…

Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait for long.

The heavy wooden door creaked open only a few minutes later, letting in a wave of chattering noise from the corridor that was cut short as Sidney slipped inside. Her eyes immediately scanned the room - checking for occupied stalls or gossiping students - before locking onto your dishevelled form at the sink.

"There you are," she said, stepping closer. "You okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. What’s wrong?"

Your fingers were curled tightly around the cold porcelain of the sink, your knuckles whitening from the pressure. Staring at your reflection, you were met with wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and hair that was definitely doing something strange after you had spent the entire day nervously running your hands through it. 

"I think something is wrong with me," you whispered. 

Sidney’s expression shifted immediately. The concern melted into something more knowing, a flicker of amusement mixing with sympathy as she moved closer, leaning her shoulder against the wall beside you, arms crossing loosely. "Randy?"

You let out a small, hysterical laugh that sounded a little too high-pitched to be entirely sane - and then, the dam broke. It all came spilling out - too fast, too messy, your words tripping over each other as if they had been building pressure all day and were finally forcing their way out. 

“I think I’m dying, Sid,” you blurted, your voice coming out thin and strained. "He’s been all over me today. Like - physically all over me. Touching my hands, standing too close, breathing down my neck - I woke up in his arms, we literally shared a bed, and he was so unfazed, he didn’t mind at all, as if it didn’t even register for him that-”

You dragged in a breath that did absolutely nothing to steady you - your stomach twisting, your chest too tight

“His smile when he looked at me,” you added, quieter now, breathless. “God, his smile. I’m going crazy, and I might actually-"

You cut yourself off with a frustrated groan, turning on the tap to splash some cold water on your face, hoping to cool the heat in your cheeks. It didn't help. 

You gripped the edge of the sink again, water dripping from your chin, threatening to mingle with the hot tears that began to well in your eyes.

"I kissed his face while he was asleep," you admitted finally, the words heavy now that they were out, irreversible. “This morning. He didn’t wake up, and I just… I just did it. And now I feel like I’m going to throw up every time I look at him.”

Sidney didn't even blink. 

"You really haven’t seen it, have you?" she asked, her calm tone almost offensive in contrast to your crisis.

“Seen what?” you snapped, grabbing a paper towel and drying your face a little more aggressively than necessary.

Her mouth twitched, like she was trying very hard not to grin. “You two have been acting like a married couple for years,” she said. “It’s honestly painful to watch sometimes.”

"No, no, we have not, and you don’t get it," you shot back immediately, your voice dropping into a harsh whisper as you started pacing, your shoes squeaking softly against the tiles. "He told me he had a crush on someone else. He literally told me there was someone he liked. He told me her name and everything, Sid. So he cannot-"

"He said that when you were dating Kieran, correct?" Sidney cut in, her eyes narrowing in that way she did when she was piecing facts together.

You froze mid-step, the words caught in your throat. “…Yeah,” you said slowly. "But what does that asshole have to do with anything?"

That earned you a look. A very long, unimpressed look. 

"Randy never had a crush on someone else," she said at last, speaking slowly, as if she was explaining something painfully obvious. "He was trying to get over his feelings for you."

Your stomach dropped so suddenly that it made you feel sick. “What do you mean, get over me?”

The restroom door creaked open as another girl walked in, and Sidney immediately stepped closer until she was standing right in front of you, blocking the view with her body so your confused and tearful expression would not become public entertainment.

“I mean,” she said, quieter now, reaching up to take your face in both hands, squishing your cheeks just enough to force your attention onto her, “that he has been in love with you for a very long time, and you are unbelievably blind if you haven’t noticed that yet.”

You made a muffled noise of protest through your squashed lips. "I am not blin-"

Her grip tightened just enough to shut you up.

“Haven’t you seen the way he looked at Kieran?” she continued, lowering her voice. “That wasn’t just jealousy, that was misery. You buy him his favourite snacks without asking. He carries your bag even when it’s empty. And every single movie night, without fail, you end up under the same blanket before anyone else even sits down. It’s not exactly subtle.”

"I also share my blanket with Stu," you tried weakly, though it came out more like a whimper.

"Not the point - Stu would share a blanket with a stray dog if it sat still long enough," Sidney deadpanned. 

Despite everything, a small, broken sound escaped you, and she let go of your face, shaking her head slightly.

"Seriously," Sidney went on, her tone shifting from scolding to something gentler, but no less certain. "Did you never question why everyone already assumes you’re together? Why the boys make gagging noises every time you walk into a room side by side?”

You stared at her and couldn’t answer, because she was right, and you knew it. 

Suddenly all of what you weren’t able to see was there, and you barely managed to suck air into your lungs. Every shared blanket, every time Randy had stood a little too close, every time you two touched a little too easily, looked at each other like you were the only two people in the room.

Your chest tightened, and Sidney noticed immediately. She reached out, gently pushing your frown into a small, forced smile with her fingers.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s go back to the others. If we leave Billy alone with the doll for too long, he might actually throw it in a dumpster, and I’d like to prevent that.”

Letting out a weak breath, you blinked a few times before nodding, gathering yourself as best as you could, though you weren’t sure if you were ready to go back out there.

Back to Randy, with this new, and apparently painfully obvious information, and act like nothing had changed - even though it felt like your entire world was slowly falling down around you.

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

For a few hazy seconds, your still sleep-fogged mind tried to make sense of it - and then you opened your eyes to investigate.

Oh. OH.

Your head was resting right against Randy’s chest, your nose buried in the smooth fabric of his shirt. He had one of his arms wrapped securely around you, hand splayed against the small of your back, practically pressing you against his front - as if he had pulled you closer in his sleep without even noticing. And you? You were tucked right up against him, one leg tangled with his like that was the most natural thing in the world.

Scattered memories of last night came rushing in. You had been watching Beetlejuice, and exhaustion had stolen every ounce of self-control from your brain, causing you to curl closer to him without thinking, too tired to remember that this is nothing best friends usually do. And looking at your current position, you almost climbed him in your sleep.

Your stomach flipped. You had done this, you had claimed the space beside him like this was normal, like this was allowed and not weird at all. Well… it was not forbidden per se, but - oh God.

Very, very slowly, you tilted your head back, just enough to look at him, your face so close that your breath fanned softly across the front of his throat. 

He was still asleep, at least he looked that way. His dark blond hair was mussed from the pillow, his mouth slightly parted, his breathing slow and even. There was the faint crease between his brows that he seemed to have even in his sleep, and then he let out the quietest, sweetest sound - barely there, just a quiet exhale that brushed over your forehead.

Shit. You were so close to his face. Close enough to count his lashes, close enough to see the slightest stubble dusting his chin, so close that if you shifted even an inch-

Your brain, traitor that it was, supplied a memory in crystal-clear clarity.

I could kiss you right now.

Heat flooded your face, because you had said that on the phone, only a little over twenty-four hours ago, half delirious with no filter. And you could, you really could kiss him - right now. 

The thought slipped in before you could even attempt to shove it away. He was asleep, so he would not know, right? It would not mean anything. It would just be- Just be what?

Before you could overthink this further into oblivion, you took your chance and moved.

With the smallest lift of your chin, you stretched your neck just enough to brush your lips against the edge of his jaw - soft, quick, more a whisper of a kiss than anything else. So light it could have been mistaken for a shift in your sleep. It was nothing, nothing at all, and there was no reaction. Good.

And yet your lips tingled when you pulled back, and your heart pounded so loudly you were certain it could wake the dead.

Overtaken by those awful, and wonderful, confusing feelings, you let your head fall back against his shoulder, infuriatingly allowing yourself to enjoy the closeness while it lasted, knowing it would burst the moment the alarm went off. Or Laurie cried for attention.

The thought drifted lazily through your mind, and only then did you realize something else. You had not gotten up once during the night. Had Randy let you sleep? Had he taken care of Laurie all alone? Letting you curl against him again and again while you caught up on your missing sleep?

There might be the faintest, fuzziest memory of him shifting beside you in the dark, the mattress dipping as he slipped back under the covers. You, humming softly, wiggling closer until you found his warmth again, like it was the only place you subconsciously wanted to be.

And he had not pushed you away, no, he had pulled you in.

-

Beeeep! Beeeep! Beeeep!

The alarm clock on Randy’s nightstand shrieked, tearing through the quiet of the early morning with absolutely zero mercy. You flinched, groaning in protest and squeezing your eyes shut for a second as the sound ripped you out of the second wave of sleep that had overcome you. 

Honestly, you were not sure if you preferred that over Laurie’s wails. Neither was pleasant, but the alarm meant school - which meant actually getting up, getting dressed, and facing the outside world instead of rocking or feeding the baby and then crawling right back under the warm, soft covers.

Assuming, of course, that you had remembered to read the back of a certain manual and did not forget to change the doll’s clothes.

Randy jolted beneath you, his whole body going rigid for a split second before his brain seemed to catch up with what the relentless beeping meant. A groan left him as he dragged a hand over his face, blinking against the bright sunlight that slipped through the curtains. Still half asleep, he reached blindly for the clock, missing it once before finally managing to slam his palm down on top of it, silencing the awful beep beep beep.

Imitating a deer frozen in headlights, you did not move. You just lay there, still tucked against him, staring up at his face while your heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst into a thousand tiny pieces.

You waited for the moment it would hit him, for the inevitable realization that you were currently in a position way too intimate to be explained casually.

But it never came.

Randy blinked a few more times, his gaze drifting downwards until it landed on you, still pressed against his chest, still half-tangled with him. For a second he just looked at you, eyes unfocused with sleep, like his brain needed an extra moment to process what he was seeing. 

Then his expression softened, blue eyes crinkling faintly at the corner. 

There was no horrified reaction, no sudden flight instinct - he just looked… a little bleary, a little bemused. Like waking up with you in his arms was not nearly as alarming to him as it probably should have been.

If anything, his fingers flexed slightly against your back, like some part of him had the instinct to pull you closer before the rest of him fully caught up.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, the word slurring at the end as he swallowed the last letter.

You stared at him, bracing yourself. “...Morning.” Fuck, your voice came out way too squeaky.

He still looked weirdly content considering the situation. Like this was just… normal. Was he smiling?

Beeeep! Beeeep! Beeeep!

The snooze went off again, shattering the moment and giving you the perfect excuse to quickly slip out of his hold and roll out of bed, getting half twisted in your blanket as you gracelessly scrambled to your feet and darted towards the door.

“Bathroom- I gotta- I need to pee,” you blurted, not even sure if the words made sense, already running into the hallway, heart racing, face burning - leaving poor befuddled Randy behind before he could say anything.

-

The door was still half open from your cinematic escape - if every final girl ran like that, they would survive their sequels a lot longer, and a lot more often.

“…Huh.” Randy looked down at the empty spot beside him, the sheets still warm, the mattress dented from where your weight had pressed into it. His arm was still half numb from the lack of blood flow, and he flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the tingling sensation of circulation returning - but it was nothing compared to the tingle still lingering on his face.

God, how lucky he had been to wake up just enough. He could still feel it if he focused - the warmth, the softness, the faint hesitation of your lips brushing against his jaw.

Randy remembered fighting to keep his breathing even, terrified that if he moved - if he so much as twitched and showed a sign of being a tad bit conscious - you’d stop. He had spent years analyzing horror tropes, memorizing and studying every rule there was, but nothing, not a single movie had ever scared him as much as the possibility of opening his eyes and seeing you recoil.

So he had stayed still, kept his eyes shut, pretended to be completely gone.

And you had kissed him.

Slowly, he sat up, the blanket sliding down into his lap. He scrubbed both hands over his face as if he needed to make sure he was actually awake, and then he broke into a huge grin.

“…She kissed me.” The words came out quiet, breathless, full of elated, stupid happiness.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck as a disbelieving laugh slipped out. “She kissed me. She actually-” He stopped, shaking his head, like his brain could not quite process it yet.

For a moment he just sat there, staring at the wall while his mind replayed the scene over and over again - the way you had shifted in your sleep, your hair falling into his face, your warm breath fanning against his throat, the barely-there brush of your lips against his jaw. 

Then his eyes drifted to the baby carrier next to the bed, where Laurie lay on her back, staring at the ceiling with her usual unblinking plastic expression.

Randy squinted at her. “…You saw that, right?”

Laurie did not react - which, honestly, made her a terrible witness, but he would take what he could get.

“Of course you did. You were right there. Do not even try to deny it,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing a random shirt from the wardrobe, his hands shaking just enough for him to notice.

“Okay, focus. It happened. She kissed me. Okay, not like- not like kissed kissed, but still - that counts. That totally counts. No platonic kiss bullshit, that was a real one. For sure.”

It felt like the physical continuation of that phone call from two nights ago.

I could kiss you right now.

You had meant it then. And you had meant it now!

He pulled his old shirt off and tossed it somewhere without looking, grabbing a fresh one from the chair and pulling it over his head, still talking like Laurie was a perfectly reasonable person to have this conversation with.

Tapping the side of his jaw, he added, “I felt it, right here. I mean, yeah, I was half asleep, but I was not that asleep.”

He reached for his jeans and stepped into them, hopping slightly on one foot as he pulled them up, still quietly rambling without pause.

“You do not hallucinate stuff like that, that is not a thing people hallucinate. That was not wishful thinking - I definitely know what wishful thinking feels like, believe me.”

Walking over, he lifted Laurie out of the carrier, automatically starting to rock her in his arms. The motion was pure muscle memory by now, something that had been engraved into him years ago when he had carefully held Martha for the first time when he was just four years old - but his mind was miles away from that memory.

“You know this is technically your fault, right?” Randy adjusted her against his shoulder, swaying a little as he spoke.

“If you had not kept her up half the night, she would not have been delirious enough to fall asleep on me. And if she had not fallen asleep on me, she would not have-”

He stopped, the grin creeping back, completely unstoppable.

“…you know.” He looked down at the plastic baby, suddenly feeling a strange burst of affection for the ridiculous prop that had somehow caused all of this in the first place.

“Good job, Laurie,” he whispered, bouncing her lightly. “You are a great wingman.”

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

"I don't wanna have to cross any more names off that wall."

You, Thomas, and Teresa are sacrifices: Forced to the mouth of the Maze with your hands wrenched behind your backs, wrists burning where the rope bites into your skin.

Early morning light stretches thin grey shadows across the dirt. The wooden posts they dragged out for you stand in a perfectly aligned row.

They look too clean after the destruction of last night.

After the attack, you'd refused to leave Thomas' side in the Pit. Teresa stayed too, cradling his head in her lap while her fingers drifted through his hair.

It was curious.

Sometimes, he would say her name in his sleep, and every time he did, her eyes flickered like his voice was the only thing tethering her to this cruel world. There's something there. Something bigger than the Glade. Bigger than all of this.

It doesn't matter.

Now is not the time to speculate.

You lift your head and look at the crowd gathered around you. Every Glader is here. Every boy you've argued with. Every boy who's dismissed you. Most of them won't even meet your eyes.

Your instincts are screaming at you: Kick! Twist! Bite! Your muscles strain against the rope. The wild, animalistic part of you is begging to fight.

You don't.

You can't.

You need to trust the plan.

Trust. It's a fragile thing, isn't it? Trust is standing still when every nerve in your body demands that you run. It's letting someone else hold a match while you're drenched in oil. It's choosing not to defend yourself while offering your throat.

Right now, your hands are bound. You're exposed, and your fate is resting on the timing of someone else. Somehow, trust is the only weapon you have.

They drag you to one of the posts. The wood scrapes rough against your shoulder blades as they shove you back into it. Your arms are yanked higher and the rope digs deeper into your wrists as they bind you tighter.

Gally, that shucking chatterbox, is still talking.

At least, you think so.

His mouth is moving. His voice is loud, but it sounds distant, like you're underwater and he's shouting from the surface. The words blur together into meaningless noise.

Your vision blends for a second. Your breathing comes too fast. You blink and force yourself to focus. Now, of all times, is not the time to lose yourself.

Through your hazy vision, you see him:

Newt stands somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Not at the front, but not hiding either. He's just there. He's watching you. Not Thomas. Not Gally. You. Like he's been waiting for you to look up.

Your eyes lock. For a second, everything else fades. The rope doesn't bite so sharply. Gally's voice doesn't sound so harsh. Then, he gives you the smallest nod.

It's barely anything, but it's enough. Your lungs finally pull in a full breath. The panic doesn't disappear, but it dulls into something manageable.

There's a strange pull in your stomach when you look at him. It's uncomfortable. Impossible to name. So, you immediately label it as irritation. Of course you do. It's easier that way.

The plan happens fast.

One second, Gally is still talking.

The next, Thomas moves.

He jerks upright like a spring snapping loose, slamming into the shoulder of the boy beside him. The kid yelps and stumbles back. Thomas rips the rope from his wrists and swings hard, knocking another Glader sideways.

Everything bursts. Teresa lashes out, driving her heel into someone's shin. Shouting explodes through the crowd. For a second, no one knows what's happening. Then, everyone does.

It's chaos. Bodies crash into each other. Someone tackles someone else. A fist swings. Someone shouts Thomas' name. Someone screams for Gally.

You?

You're still tied to the post.

Your heart slams violently against your ribs. This is it. This is the moment. The plan is happening, and you're stuck. Your stomach drops so harshly, it almost makes you dizzy.

What if they forget? What if they run? What if this is the moment they escape the Glade, the moment everyone has been waiting for, and you're still tied to this stupid post while they disappear into the Maze?

You imagine it in a flash: The Maze swallowing them whole, the doors closing, and you. Left behind. You're too much trouble, after all. Why would they want you?

The world around you feels muffled, like someone's shoved cotton in your ears. You can see the chaos of bodies moving and people shouting, but it all comes through dull. Warped.

Your fingers twitch uselessly against the rope.

The suddenly, a blade flashes.

The rope snaps.

"Come on!" Frypan is in front of you. Your arms drop forward with a burning rush of blood. He shoves a spare machete into your hands, and you stare for half a second, your brain struggling to catch up. Frypan says something else, but the words don't find you.

"What?" You blink. He swears under his breath.

"Lock in." His hands grab your shoulders, his voice sharp as he says your name. "Now." Something in your chest lodges into place. Right. Right. Today is the day. The day you finally run the Maze. The day Newt said you could.

"Yeah." Your fingers tighten around the machete. "I'm locked." Frypan gives you a short nod and grabs your arm, hauling you through the disarray.

You push through the bodies, ducking under a swinging fist. Someone crashes into your shoulder, then stumbles away. The Glade has dissolved into a full fight.

The plan is moving.

By the time the shouting settles into something more organized, there are seven of you, standing at the entrance of the Maze, exactly where you're supposed to be.

Thomas.

Teresa.

Minho.

Newt.

Chuck.

Frypan.

You.

They didn't leave you tied to the pole.

"You don't have to come," Thomas says loudly to the crowd as he steps forward, gripping a javelin in his hand. "But we're leaving. Anyone else who wants to come, now's your last chance." The Glade hesitates and fear ripples through the crowd.

"Don't listen to him. He's just trying to scare you." Gally snaps, his face red with fury. "You think you're some kind of hero? You've been here five minutes, and suddenly, you know what's best for the Glade."

"He doesn't have to scare you." You blurt. Every head turns, and you're suddenly aware of each pair of eyes on you. "We're already scared. I'm scared." You swallow, the admission tasting stale. "You're scared too. Every single one of you, but pretending you belong here won't take that away. Out there, we have a real chance."

"You're the one who doesn't belong here." Gally spits.

"I know." You nod once. "I know. I'm reminded of it every single day." You clench around the machete. "No matter what I do. No matter what job I take. No matter how hard I try to prove what I am, it doesn't matter." Your eyes flick around the crowd. "You've already decided what I am. It doesn't matter if I stay or leave."

"Then leave."

"Oh, I will, but I want you to know," Your voice wavers slightly. "If the roles were reversed, and you were the only one here who didn't belong," You shake your head. "I would've never treated you the way you treated me."

Silence.

No one dares to speak. For a long moment, the only sound is the breeze sliding along the stone walls. You've finally been heard by the entire Glade.

Then someone moves. A boy near the back steps away from Gally's side. Another follows. Then another. No one apologizes, but a few of them glance at you with expressions adjacent to shame.

Gally watches. His jaw tightens as he looks at the boys leaving him. For a time, he just stands there, breathing hard. You expect him to yell again.

Instead, his shoulders sag slightly. He looks at you again. The anger is still there, but there's something else beneath it. For the first time, you see each other clearly.

You're not enemies. Just people. He's just a boy, terrified of losing the only home he's ever known. You can't hate him. Not fully. He believes in this place the same way you believe in leaving it.

"Good luck," He exhales slowly, fierce eyes flicking towards the Maze. "Against the Grievers." No one responds. Gally turns his back, and you watch him retreat several steps before turning your own.

You step forward, and the air changes immediately. The Maze feels different in the day, like a living piece of history that swallows the sound of your footsteps.

You pause for a second.

This is it.

This is the thing you've wanted from the moment the Box opened and dumped you into the Glade. For so long, the Maze has been the center of your life. Every argument, every rumor, every dream leads back to this.

There's no countdown.

No moment of triumph.

No dramatic shift in the world.

You simply start running.

Stone walls blur past as the group moves forward, boots pounding on the ground in uneven rhythms. For something you've imagined to many times, it feels strangely anticlimactic.

You almost feel guilty for how much you've romanticized it. The Maze isn't some grand mystery for you to solve. It's just cold stone and danger.

Your knee isn't happy. A sharp ache pulses through the joint with every stride, and you grit your teeth as the group gradually spreads out ahead of you.

Of course.

You finally get the chance to run the Maze properly, to prove yourself, and you're limping. You slow without meaning to, drifting toward the back of the group. Annoyance burns in your throat.

Then you notice Chuck beside you. He's fallen back too, jogging slightly out of breath, but still managing to have an iconic grin planted on his face.

The previous night prods into your mind, and guilt swirls in your stomach. Among the shouting and fear, everything spiraled out of control.

You yelled at him.

All you want right now is for him to be safe. For all of this to work. For the Maze to lead somewhere, anywhere, that might give him a chance to find his family.

Your posture straightens and you lengthen your stride, forcing yourself to ignore the pain in your knee as you move closer to him. You refuse to let him see you struggling.

"Hey." You start. Chuck glances over. You open your mouth again, then close it. The apology sits heavy on your tongue, but the words refuse to come out right. "...So..."

You clear your throat. Chuck waits, studying your face. An awkward silence forms while your mind races to snag the right words. They're nowhere to be found.

"I know. It's okay." He speaks finally, recognizing your struggle. "People get scared sometimes. Last night was pretty scary." He says matter-of-factly.

"That's it?" You ask.

"That's it." He nods, and relief floods your nerves. "Besides," He bumps your shoulder lightly as you run. "You're not the worst person I've ever been yelled at by."

"Oh really?" You grin, mocking offense. "Who is?"

"Minho yelled at me for putting socks in the wrong laundry pile once."

"Oh, wow. I'm glad you survived." You huff a quiet laugh. This feels right. You miss simple moments with Chuck. Silly pranks and wasted afternoons.

"Oh, wait!" Chuck's head whips like he just spotted something life changing. Then, he points at Thomas. "I think he wanted me closer to the front. Something about supplies."

"That sounds made up." You squint.

"Probably." Chuck replies cheerfully. Before you can question further, he speeds up, jogging to catch up with Thomas and the others. You watch him go.

Only then do you perceive how much stronger you'd been running for him. The moment he pulls away, your step falters with a surge of pain in your knee.

You catch yourself quickly, forcing your steps into a natural rhythm before anyone else can notice, but the damage of strain is done. The ache pulses harder now, spreading up your leg.

You grit your teeth and keep running.

A few seconds later, someone adjusts their pace beside you. You don't have to look up to know who it is. It's the culprit. The reason for Chuck's painfully obvious excuse.

It's Newt.

He falls into step next to you, his stride steady despite the the slight uneven tempo of his injured leg. You sigh quietly. He probably saw you falter.

"You're locking your hip."

"What?"

"You're going about it all wrong." He gestures vaguely toward your leg, still running. "That's why it's getting worse. You're locking your hip. Favoring that side."

"Oh, brilliant." You mutter. "Didn't realize you'd become a fitness instructor."

"Just shorten your steps, yeah?" He rolls his eyes. "Stop trying to match what everyone else is doing." You hesitate. Then, reluctantly, you adjust slightly. Your steps become shorter. More controlled. Less painful. You hate that he's right. "That better?"

"Unfortunately." You sigh.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. You run like that, beside each other, building a rhythm. Your eyes drift down to his leg. It's strange to see him running again.

There was a time when he was one of the greatest Runners in the Glade. Everyone watched him disappear into the Maze every morning. You watched him disappear into the Maze every morning.

Not because you cared.

Obviously.

Just because.

He made it look easy.

He made it look like freedom.

You can still vividly remember sitting beside him in the MedHut after the incident. The quiet conversations. The way he leaned back in his cot as he listened to you like there was nowhere he'd rather be.

You used to visit him every night.

Before he healed.

Before things got complicated.

You glance at him again now, running beside you like the gap never happened. You wonder if the friendship was real at all. Perhaps you just imagined it because you wanted someone in the Glade to be on your side.

"You look good like this." The comment pulls you from your thoughts instantly.

"Excuse me?" You blink, and your face feels a little too warm. Newt glances over, realizing how the words sounded. His ears turn slightly pink.

"As a Runner, I mean." He adds quickly. "S'What you should've been. All along." He clears his throat, shaking his head. "Don't make it weird, you Shank."

Your heart stumbles. For a breath, you forget the pain in your knee. You forget the towering walls around you. You forget the Grievers lurking somewhere deeper in the Maze.

All you can think about is what he said, and the way he said it. Not like a compliment, but a fact. It's not an apology, but it's an admission that you were right from the very beginning.

You were right. This is where you belong. Not because of the Maze, but because there's something relentless in your bones. Something that was never meant to stay still.

For once, you don't feel like an outsider running behind everyone else. You feel like you're exactly where you were always meant to be. Running forward.

With him beside you.

He had absolutely woken his mother up before six in the morning just to ask if you could stay over.

Rolling around, you pressed your face into your pillow and let out a strangled little scream that got muffled by the fabric - the only socially acceptable way to cope with the overwhelming mix of emotions currently flooding your system. (Never mind the black spots dancing at the edge of your vision from the severe lack of sleep.)

You were so, so tired - and he was such an Idiot. A sweet, theatrical idiot.

With a groan, you pushed yourself upright and grabbed your backpack, dragging it across the floor and towards your wardrobe, pulling a few clothes from it, and haphazardly stuffed them next to your college block and pencil case that were now buried somewhere beneath the chaos. 

After brushing your teeth and working a brush through the birdnest of your hair with what felt like your last two functioning brain cells, you tossed those items in there too. Future you could deal with the messy disaster later, definitely not now, there was no time nor energy for that.

Something was missing, though… Ah. The baby. 

It was honestly a miracle that you had almost forgotten her, considering that she had terrorized you all night with her own little unholy rendition of The Exorcist. Maybe that's what she had actually been doing - exorcising your soul over the course of the night.

You lifted her into your arms and placed her into the carrier, squeezing the bottles, diapers, and spare clothes into whatever space remained. You really had to figure out a name for her. Calling her “the baby” started to sound more and more ominous. Having watched enough horror movies with the boys, you knew that mistreating and disrespecting a doll wasn’t the best idea one could have.

After receiving your own parents’ approval - and nearly face-planting into your cereal bowl at breakfast - you somehow made it out of the house and towards school without collapsing. The morning air was too cold, the sun too bright - were you still existing, or merely vegetating? 

And you were not ready to face Randy, not after last night’s verbal faux pas. The memory flickered in your mind, warm, tingling… and mortifying all at once.

Still, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

-

By the time you reached your usual spot by the fountain, your body had given up on dignity entirely. You were stretched out across the edge of the fountain in a position that probably looked ridiculous to anyone passing by - though your classmates should be used to your group’s strange dynamic by now. 

Your head was pillowed comfortably in Tatum’s soft lap, while your legs were casually thrown over Stu’s thighs, claiming him as your personal very tall and loud ottoman. He had complained for exactly ten seconds before surrendering to fate and absently fidgeting with the laces of your shoes instead, occasionally tugging them, just to be annoying. Typical. 

If Tatum hadn’t been there, he probably would’ve dragged you fully into his own lap by now. Personal space was a concept that was simply not known to Stu Macher.

And oh - the steady trickle of water was so dangerously soothing if you ignored the sunlight hitting your face, or the constant background noise of teenagers passing by. Which, admittedly, was surprisingly easy to tune out when exhaustion was splitting your skull.

You were maybe thirty seconds away from slipping into a much-needed, sweet, welcome state of unconsciousness… when a sudden shadow fell over you, yanking you right back.

Blinking one eye open, you identified the said shadow as Billy.

“Is she alive?” he asked dryly, and you were sadly far too out of it to properly flip him off - so you tried to protest instead, but the sound that left you dissolved into a tired, pathetic croak.

Dignity was a social construct. A social construct you did not currently possess.

Tatum, gracefully ignoring your mortifying noise, just continued to lazily comb her fingers through your hair. “Debatable,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “She mumbled something about Krueger earlier. If she starts levitating, I’m not dealing with it - that’s clearly your department, Bates.”

Through your one open eye, you spotted Sidney approaching, already grinning as she took in the display. In her hand: blessed caffeine - a can of Coke that might just get you through this long, cruel day.

“Wow,” she said lightly as she crouched down beside you, “if this isn’t the most tragic version of Sleeping Beauty I’ve ever seen.”

She pressed the cold aluminum against your cheek before placing it into your hand. The chill shocked your system just enough to make your mind reboot, dispelling the brain fog for a second.

“You’re an angel,” you mumbled, fingers tightening around the can. “But why is none of you as tired as I am? This little demon kept me up all night,” you continued, slurring the words together as you gestured vaguely towards where the baby carrier sat.

Sidney simply shrugged. “Mine screamed, like… once?”

You turned your head to stare at her, forlorn gaze accentuated by the dark bags under your eyes. “…Once?”

She nodded, completely unbothered.

“This is so fucking unfair, guys.”

Before you could complain any further, you caught sight of a familiar shade of green weaving through the courtyard. Your stomach reacted before your brain did.

It dropped - fast and sudden - and then a storm of butterflies followed. Or maybe it was a hornet’s nest someone had just poked with a stick? Hard to tell, honestly. Either way, it was undeniable chaos and impossible to ignore.

Randy.

He stopped a few feet away, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair slightly disheveled like he’d run his hands through it too many times on the walk over. (Which you absolutely did not find charming at all, obviously.)

His gaze flickered over the scene in front of him: you draped across his friends like a Victorian lady on her fainting couch, one hand loosely clutching a can of Coke as if it kept her alive.

Slowly - because if you were going to be dramatic, you were going to commit - you lifted your free hand to your forehead, committing fully to the role of weak damsel in need of saving.

“Ah,” you sighed, voice still rough with fatigue. “My knight in shining armor has finally arrived.”

Stu immediately stopped fidgeting with your shoelaces, squinting at you in exaggerated suspicion. “Hold on. Weren’t you Sleeping Beauty like thirty seconds ago?”

You rolled your eyes, hoping the warmth creeping into your cheeks wasn’t too obvious. Because unfortunately, that line made last night’s memory replay on a cruel loop.

I could kiss you right now.

Abort mission, abort mission! You had meant it as a casual, harmless, ice-breaking joke.

Randy, meanwhile, had gone suspiciously silent. No witty comeback. Just… buffering. He looked like his brain had temporarily blue-screened, and Tatum clocked the situation instantly.

“…Wait, wait-” she said, eyes darting between the two of you. “Did we miss a chapter?”

“Shut up,” you muttered. “I called him at like four in the morning because the doll wouldn’t stop screaming, okay? And he offered to share the nights with me. Very knightly - extremely chivalrous, even. That’s it.” You paused, then added defensively, “And Sleeping Beauty has a prince. Not a knight.”

Stu let out a low whistle. “A sleepover? Wow. That is not very Catholic of you two. Should we start a condom fund, or-”

You drove your heel into the side of his thigh with far more force than someone on the brink of collapse should reasonably possess. “I said shut up.”

He yelped and recoiled dramatically. “Jesus- okay! Violence!”

Across from you, Randy was blushing. Actually blushing. The tips of his ears had turned red, and he was staring at a fixed point somewhere near Stu’s shoulder before finally, carefully, meeting your gaze.

For a split second, the noise of the courtyard dulled, the daily buzz reduced to your heartbeat, the blood rushing in your ears - and him.

In that moment, something quiet passed between you. Soft, tentative, almost shy. The perfect scene right out of a high school romance.

And then, because the universe refuses to let you have nice things, Billy had to ruin it.

“Really? With Meeks?” he muttered, flatly. “That’s below you, man.”

The softness shattered.

Randy’s jaw tightened. You saw the shift instantly - the way his shoulders squared, the way his grip on his backpack strap firmed. “Good thing nobody asked you, Loomis,” he shot back. “And at least I’m not out here looking like a rat dripping with hair gel.”

Stu made an impressed little noise, and Billy’s eyes narrowed. Just when you feared that this would escalate beyond an unnecessary male ego competition, the babydoll started screaming. The sound cut straight through your skull like a drill.

You squeezed your eyes shut in immediate distress, the memory of last night came crashing back: pacing the room, bouncing on your heels, whispering pleas into the dark while the doll wailed and wailed and wouldn’t stop until you called- good idea.

“Raaandy,” you whined dramatically, already reaching towards him. “Please. She’s also your daughter! I cannot survive another round of this. If she doesn’t stop, I will drown myself in this fountain.”

“You can’t actually drown yourse-” Stu chimed in, and you waved him off blindly. “Then you’ll just have to help!”

Randy didn’t hesitate and reacted to your plea, stepping forward, a grin flickering back into place, scooping the baby into his arms with ease. He rocked her gently - once, twice, and the cries began to soften. And stop. Just like that.

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world tilting briefly before settling again.

“This can’t be real,” you breathed. Seconds. It had taken him seconds.

He didn’t even look like he was trying. He just… did it! He stood there, swaying slightly, focused - his brows drawing together in concentration.  In the same way as during heated movie debates. When he was certain he was right about something.

You had seen that expression a hundred times, but never this gentle.

Your mouth opened automatically, venom at the tip of your tongue, ready to deflect - but nothing came out. Because you were staring.

At the careful way his fingers supported the doll’s head, at how natural he looked. 

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient inside your chest. A full, traitorous lurch. 

Oh no. Oh, no no no.

It was unfair - you were the one who had nearly sacrificed your sanity last night. You were the one running on pure willpower and nothing else. And yet he stood there looking soft. Sweet. Weirdly competent. Annoyingly attractive.

Oh fuck.

You grabbed your bag abruptly and pushed yourself to your feet, the strap nearly slipping from your fingers as you steadied yourself.

Distance, you needed distance.

Because the longer you looked, the more dangerous this felt. The more your brain insisted on replaying-

I could kiss you right now.

You turned toward the school entrance without warning.

Splitting up was against the survival rules, but retreat seemed like a valid strategy in this case.

Behind you, you heard movement. Randy glanced up immediately, grabbed the handle of the carrier, and hurried after you. He fell into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. So much for retreat

“You okay?” he asked, softer now. Concerned.

Your heart kicked again - this traitorous thing. No. You were absolutely not okay.

Your brain felt like it had short-circuited, and your pulse was beating like you were the final girl sprinting through the third-act chase scene, except there was no killer.

But you forced a small smile, nodding anyway. “I’m fine.”

He studied your face for a second longer than necessary, clearly unconvinced.

To save yourself from having to say anything else, you finally opened the can you were carrying around.  You took a quick sip, the carbon prickling against your tongue and sliding down your throat, giving you something to distract yourself.

You were so, so doomed.

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The doors didn't close.

What does this mean? They're supposed to close. That's the one mercy of this place. The walls move at dawn, then seal at night. The Maze resets. No matter how cruel this nightmare is, at least it follows its own logic.

Not tonight.

Tonight, the stone corridors yawn wide open, and the darkness inside is endless. Tonight, the Maze spills into the Glade, and there is nowhere for you to hide.

Somewhere, in some other universe, another version of you is doing something stupidly ordinary. Maybe sneaking a boy through the bedroom window. Maybe painting your toes some ridiculously named shade like 'Cherry Bomb' or "Ocean Kiss'. Maybe reading fanfiction online.

In this universe, you're fighting for your life.

The first Griever slams into the Glade like a meteor. The ground convulses beneath your feet. Metal limbs spear into the earth, ripping up grass in violent chunks.

Boys scream and firelight flickers against plated bodies as more shapes pour through the open Maze doors. Chaos detonates, and your only option is to run.

Your knee protests immediately in an electric flare that nearly folds you in half, but there's no time to hesitate. A bladed tail whistles through the air where your head had been half a second ago.

You duck hard. Pain explodes through your leg when you try to straighten again. For a dizzy moment, your vision whites out. You almost collapse.

You don't.

You shove off your good leg and force yourself forward. Jeff's voice echoes in your skull like a sick joke: 'No running. Avoid walking." Oh well.

You vault a splintered crate, barely clearing before someone barrels into you. The impact sends you sprawling to the ground. Dirt fills your mouth. Your palms scrape against stone and ash. You spit and push yourself back up before you can give time for the pain.

The Glade, your prison, is unrecognizable. Huts burn, flames devouring the wooden beams in greedy, hungry bursts. The grass, which once looked too green to be real, blackens beneath stomping metal.

A Griever crashes through the garden fence to your left, and dirt sprays in every direction. A boy goes down. You can't see his face through the smoke. You don't know his name. You only see him scrambling on his elbows as he tries to drag himself backward.

He almost makes it. The Griever mounts him, and you freeze just long enough to see the limb come down. There's a wet squelch, a spray, and then he's still.

Holy shit.

You just watched him die.

There's no time to process it. No time to mourn. Horror can't slow you down. Your devastation sharpens into one singular, blinding thought: Chuck.

You pivot, and run.

Fear is smaller than the instinct roaring through your chest. You don't care about escape in this moment. You don't care about survival. You care about one thing, and one thing alone.

Chuck.

Find Chuck.

You shove through smoke and bodies, scanning faces. None of them are his. Someone slams into your shoulder, and you stagger sideways, nearly going down again. You catch yourself at the last second, and keep moving.

Chuck.

Chuck.

Chuck.

His name pounds in your head at the same frantic rhythm as your heart. You steer toward your hut without thinking. He hides there sometimes when you play hide and seek. 'It's genius,' He swears. 'You never expect me there.'

You're halfway to the clearing when a Griever drops into your path.

You skid backward, shoes scraping against the ground. The creature unfolds in front of you, metal limbs stretching outward in nauseating motions.

There's nowhere obvious to run.

You glance left.

Right.

Behind you.

Your mind goes reckless: You could roll under it. Slide between its' legs and come running up on the other side. You stare at the narrow gap beneath its' body.

You're fucking crazy.

You know what this plan really is. It's a gamble with your spine. A gamble with your life, but if Chuck is past it, it would have been worth the risk.

You shift your weight, preparing to launch when fire erupts. A lantern shatters against the Griever's side. Flames blossom instantly, and the creature shrieks, jerking as fire crawls along its plating.

You whip your head toward the source. Teresa stands a few yards away, soot streaked across her face, chest heaving. She isn't screaming. She isn't panicking. Her eyes are sharp, and even in the middle of hell, you feel something like awe.

"Are you okay?" She grabs your arm.

"Yeah." You breathe. "Yeah. You?"

"I'm fine." Her grip tightens. "Which way?"

"Uh," You brain scrambles back into motion. She's relying on you. Teresa has barely been here long enough to know where the kitchens are. She doesn't know the shortcuts between huts or where the ground dips. You do. "This way!"

You grap her wrist and pull.

You consider the tree line. If you can reach it, maybe the trees can give you cover. Maybe the Grievers are too big and clumsy to navigate the dense roots and trunks.

What about Chuck? You can't hide without him. Smoke claws into your lungs and the world feels like it's rotating too quickly. Your thoughts start to scatter.

No.

Focus.

You can't afford to stop now.

Five things you can see: Fire swallowing a rooftop. A Griever reflecting the orange light. A spear in the dirt. Teresa and her ash streaked face. Your own hands. They're shaking.

Focus.

Four things you can feel: Heat. Heat from the fire against your cheeks. The throbbing pain in your knee. Teresa's grip. She's stronger than she looks. The ash settling in your hair.

Focus.

Three things you can hear: Metal clanking. Boys screaming. Names being shouted beneath the roar of fire. Your own pulse hammering in your ears.

Focus.

Two things you can smell: Smoke. It's filling your lungs in such a way that makes it difficult to breathe. Difficult to run. Burning wood. The scent of everything built here disintegrating.

Focus.

One thing you can taste: Dirt. You swallow it down.

Focus.

Through the haze, you spot Thomas and Alby. Alby stumbles. Even from here, you can see the weakness in him from a recovery that never quite finished.

He collapses, and you don't even think about it. You sprint toward him, Teresa right beside you. Between you two, you haul him upright, and his weight sags heavy on your shoulders.

You remember every argument. Every time he's ever shut you down or told you to stand back. It doesn't matter. You want him to live. You want them all to live.

You want to live.

"Get behind me!" Thomas plants himself in front of you, body squared toward an oncoming Griever. The creature barrels forward, and Thomas braces for an impact that never comes.

Spears rain down from the side. Clang. Clang. Clang. The Griever's focus jerks away. Frypan bursts through the smoke like a battering ram, shouting something wild and incoherent, spear raised high. Newt is right beside him, machete flashing.

The Griever retreats under the assault, limbs retracting just enough to buy you seconds. Seconds are everything in a crisis like this. Then, you hear it:

A high, panicked sound.

Chuck.

Your entire body reacts, and a chill descends down your spine. Your head whips around. Where? Where? You don't even notice Newt until his hands are on you.

Strong fingers grip your shoulders, turning you toward him. His eyes rake over your face urgently before one arm hooks around you and starts dragging you backwards. He's speaking. You see his mouth moving, but don't hear a word.

You try to twist away, screaming Chuck's name, but Newt tightens his hold. The Council Hall looms ahead. No. No, you can't go inside. Not without him. You'd choose death with Chuck over safety without him.

You fight Newt's grip, but he's stronger, and the chaos is too loud for him to even register your protests. He shoves you right through the doorway as Thomas slams it shut behind you. The bolt crashes into place.

Then, you see him.

Chuck stands by the opposite wall. He's filthy. There's blood on his shirt, but his posture is straight, chin held high. He looks terrified, but brave anyway.

"Chuck." Your body moves on its own. "Chuck. Chuck!" You reach him, and your hands fly everywhere at once, assessing him for any hint of damage.

"I'm okay! I'm okay!" He insists, breathlessly.

"Are you hurt? You're bleeding? Are you bleeding?"

"I'm fine!" He promises. "It's not mine."

Your vision blurs, and you don't even realize you're crying until your tears swim down your cheek. You pull him in so hard; he makes a startled noise.

Your relief doesn't even last a moment.

The ceiling explodes. Wood cracks inwards and debris rain down as dust swallows the air. You shove Chuck beneath you, curling your body over his.

People scatter to corners, walls, and whatever looks like shelter. You don't move. Your only purpose is to protect him. You glance up to the ceiling again, searching for the violent limb.

The wall caves in.

The Griever's arm punches through the side of the building and clamps around an opening you'd missed on Chuck's torso. The force nearly rips him out of your arms.

"Chuck!" You plant your feet and grab him with everything you have. Your fingers dig into his shirt. Into his skin. You don't care if it hurts him. Better to have bruises than to be gone.

The mechanical limb tightens. Chuck's body jerks forward. Rage detonates inside you. Not fear. Not panic. Pure rage. You bare your teeth and pull back with every ounce of strength.

The Maze is not taking him from you.

"Chuck! Don't let go!" Thomas is there. He throws himself forward, grabbing Chuck's arm. The Griever jerks again, trying to wrench him free.

"No shit!" Chuck's strained voice shouts in reply. Under different circumstances, you might've laughed. Even now, he's still Chuck. Your funny, sweet, loving little brother.

More hands join.

Someone grabs onto Chuck's shirt. Someone else grips his legs. A chain of bodies forms, all pulling back in desperate unity. The Griever's limb whines, metal straining.

Then, Alby roars. He charges forward with a hatchet and brings it down on the mechanical arm with savage force. Once. Twice. Again, and again.

Sparks explode in the air. Metal dents. A long, syringe like stinger snaps loose and clatters across the floor. With one final blow, the arm recoils, retracting through the shattered wall.

Chuck collapses into you. You hit the floor hard, wrapping around him once again. You press your face into his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of him.

You almost lost him.

"Chuck." You sob, fingers twisting into his curly strands. "Chuck. Oh— Are you okay? Does it hurt?" The words tumble out, frantic. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay—"

You don't get another second before the wall bursts into splinters again. Another arm slashes through, and this one doesn't hesitate. It clamps around Alby.

"Alby!" Thomas lunges..

You don't have to be a MedJack to know that there's no coming back from the hold that Griever has on Alby. Its' claws sink into the flesh of his torso. Blood dribbles against the debris and cracked beams. Chuck turns his head, but you grab his face and pull it into your chest.

"Don't look."

"Thomas," Alby speaks, and his voice is much too steady for a man on the verge of death. He still has that commanding tone, like the first day you ever saw him in the Glade. "Get them out." There's no fear. Only the authority of a decision.

The arm jerks backward, and the sickening sound of tearing flesh follows. Thomas' fingers slip, and Alby is ripped away into the curtain of smoke.

"Alby!" Thomas doesn't think. He vaults through the destroyed wall and disappears after him.

"Thomas!" Your voice cracks. You nearly lost Chuck. Now, Thomas has gone into the void too. You grab Chuck by the shoulders and shake him lightly. "Stay here. You hear me? Stay. Inside." Then you turn and launch yourself through the wreckage.

The Glade is mutilated.

Wood crunches under your feet with every step. The gardens are shredded. The Homestead is gashed open. The Grievers are gone, vanished just as quickly as they came, but their damage lingers on every cracked beam and blood soaked patch of grass.

Through the thinning haze, a broad shape comes barreling straight toward Thomas. It's Gally. Thomas takes a quick step back, lifting his hands.

"Gally—" The punch lands hard enough to snap his head to the side. The stumbles and goes down. It takes 3 boys to tug Gally back before he can swing again.

"This is all you, Thomas!" Gally screams, thrashing under the grip of his fellow Gladers. The grief and fury twists his face into something unrecognizable. "Look around!"

"Back off!" You shove yourself between them. "It's not his fault!" You're ready to say more, something unsavory, when movement catches at the corner of your eye.

Chuck.

He's out of the Council Hall, and in his hands is the Griever stinger Alby had knocked loose. The sight of it in his palms makes your stomach twist.

"You heard what Alby said!" Gally fights against the boys restraining him. "He's one of them! He's one of them, and they sent him here to destroy everything, and now he has! Look around, Thomas!"

The crowd erupts in anger, fear, and fresh grief. Boys shout over one another, voices raw and cracking from endless screams. You disregard it. Instead, you limp toward Chuck and yank the stinger out of his hands.

"What are you doing with this? I told you to stay inside." Your voice comes out harsh, and Chuck's face flushes, bright with something that isn't fear.

"I didn't want to stay inside." He says firmly, and your frustration bubbles over. "I don't want to hide away while all the older guys figure everything out."

"I told you to stay inside. To stay safe! You could've gotten killed. You almost did tonight!"

"I didn't!"

"That's not the point! Do you have any idea how dangerous all of this is?" The words burst up from your throat. "When I tell you to do something, it's for your own good! You need to listen!"

"Like you do?" His brows furrow and for a moment, you're staring into a mirror. The accusation is clean. Your mouth hangs open, but nothing comes out, because he's right.

You're the girl who ran into the Maze. You're the girl who throws herself into danger, and now you're demanding that Chuck stay safe and obedient while you live by the exact opposite.

The hypocrisy burns.

You're so wrapped in your fear, anger, and guilt, that you don't even catch the way Thomas steps closer. Not until the weight leaves your hands.

"What're you doing?" Confusion slices through your overwhelmed mind. He' s taken the stinger. Slowly. Carefully. Like he didn't want to startle you.

"Maybe he's right." Thomas says quietly, taking a measured step back. He puts just enough space between you that you'd have to lunge to reach him.

"Who?" You shake your head, trying to steady your breathing. Now that the immediate danger has passed, your knee throbs viciously. "Who? Gally?"

"I need to remember." His fingers brush over the syringe, thumb tracing the metal edge. It takes a second. Maybe two. Then, cold realization spreads through your chest.

"Thomas," Your voice drops. "Don't." You take a careful step forward, hands raised like you're approaching a feral animal. "Don't do that. There are other ways."

"Do you trust me?" He looks up at you as he takes another step back, widening the distance. Of course you trust him. You trust him with your life. With Chuck's life. With every impossible decision that's gotten you this far.

Oh, but this?

"Thomas, don't." You whisper "Please." You don't beg. You don't remember begging, but you are now. He gives you a look that almost feels like pity.

Then, he drives the stinger into his thigh.

He collapses almost instantly.

You shout and try to run to him, but your knee gives out completely. It's not even pain. It's more like your leg has entirely forgotten how to work. You hit the ground and scramble the rest of the way on shaking hands.

Teresa is there in seconds, dropping beside him and lifting Thomas' head into her lap. You yank the syringe out of his leg and toss it aside like a bomb.

He doesn't move.

What if he doesn't wake up? What if this was the last stupidly reckless decision he ever makes? What if you could've stopped him? You should've grabbed it. You shouldn't have let him get ahold of it in the first place.

"Chuck!" Teresa's voice sounds, muffled behind your spiraling thoughts. "Get the other syringe!" Your hands tremble over Thomas' chest. Your vision blurs. The shouting around you becomes too loud. Too much.

This world is too much.

You can't think.

You can't breathe.

You should've done something. Instead, you're kneeling here, useless, while everything falls apart. Alby is gone. The Glade is destroyed, and Thomas might be next.

"That traitor deserves this." Gally's deep voice cuts through the chaos. "He's dangerous. He belongs in the Pit before he kills all the rest of us too."

Something in you snaps.

"The Shuck is wrong with you, Gally?" You force yourself upright. Your knee doesn't cooperate. You stagger anyway, nearly collapsing. "He's not going in the Pit in his condition!"

"If you love the traitor so much," Gallt storms closer, fury radiating off him. "You can join him in the Pit. Anyone still siding with him can." He gets right in front of you.

So, with that, you spit in his face.

Newt moves fast, shoving himself between you and Gally just as your knee buckles again. You stumble, and he catches you before you hit the ground.

"Get off me!" You snap, trying to shove him away even though you're barely standing. He ignores it and drags you back from the center of the chaos, turning you so you're facing him instead of the crowd.

"Back off." He says under his breath. "Just— Back off."

"They can't put him in the Pit. You can't let them put Thomas in the Pit." The words pour frantically from your breathless lips. "He didn't do this, Newt. He didn't—"

"Listen to me." Newt grabs your shoulders more firmly, steadying you as your knee threatens to fold again. "You need to calm down. Alright? Calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" You fire back, voice shaking. "I am calm! This is insane! He didn't— Gally was— He shouldn't—" You're talking too fast. You know you are.

"They'll vote," Newt says quietly. "And we don't have the numbers."

"So that's it?" You stare. "We just let them throw Thomas down there?"

"You can choose to go with him. That's your choice, and I won't stop you," Newt glances his shoulder, before continuing back to you, voice hushed. "But you won't stay there. I promise you that."

What does that mean? You try to swallow several more breaths. The lack of oxygen is becoming dizzying. You can't think. You can't focus. You can't do anything.

"You don't know that."

"I do." Newt insists. "I'm on your team."

"No. You've never been on my team." You snap. The accusation hits him like a slap, and a flicker of hurt crosses his face, but he doesn't step back.

"Please. Please. If there's ever been a time for you to listen to me, make it now." His eyes sweep over your face, taking in the tears, dust, and blood. "I am on your side. I always have been."

Your glare falters. Your whole body aches. Your knee feels useless. Thomas' unconscious body lies somewhere behind you. The Glade is wrecked. Everything you ever thought was a constant is gone.

Except him.

Newt is standing before you like he's willing to hold the pieces together with his bare hands. Vivid memories push through the scatter in your head: His crooked grin in the sunlight and quiet conversations when no one else was around.

Your defenses crack. Just a little. You swallow hard. You're exhausted. Overwhelmed. Scared in a way that there will never be words for. For once, you can decide to try.

You can try to have hope.

You can try to trust that he will do right by you.

He will.

The MedHut is oddly quiet for such a vivid afternoon.

Sunlight filters through the warped wooden walls, its glow catching on the edges of the nearest cot and dusting the room in warm golden hues.

You were leaned over the makeshift central table, elbows braced over an open anatomy book. The pages were pristine in a way that felt almost wrong for the Glade.

There were no bent corners. No smudged fingerprints. No blood ground into the margins. It had miraculously survived last month's delivery, and you'd been pouring over it every moment since, as if memorizing it fast enough might make up for everything you hadn't known before.

Your fingers trace over the curve of a ribcage. Then, the sternum. Costal cartilage. You follow the label lines slowly, committing each term to memory.

The words feel heavy beneath your touch: Important in a way that goes beyond ink and paper, like knowing the name of each part would give you power over it. Would understanding the human body make it kinder? Easier to save?

You read about contusions. About the way blood pools beneath skin after blunt trauma. You linger on passages describing pain responses, muscle guarding, and shock. Every sentence feels like a promise: 'Next time, I'll know what to do.'

You're halfway through a wordy paragraph when the door carefully creaked open. You don't look up at first. Someone urgently injured wouldn't have entered so peacefully. It isn't until the door clicks shut that you finally lift your head.

Newt stands just inside the doorway.

His hair is a mess; curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. His shirt hangs askew on his frame, collar tugged too far to one side, and his breathing looks a little too deliberate. Your stomach drops.

"Newt?" You're already pushing up from the table. "What happened?"

He hesitates for half a second, eyes flicking away from yours. Then, he reaches up and tugs his shirt aside, just enough to show you the damage.

A large scrape runs along his shoulder, skin raw and red where it had dragged. The beginnings of a bruise darkened the surrounding skin. It's nothing deep. Nothing catastrophic, but it looks painful all the same.

Uninvited, came the memory:

The image of him being dragged into the MedHut, leg mangled beyond anything you'd known how to fix back then. You can still smell the blood from that day. You still remember the way your hands hovered uselessly over him with the fear of making it worse.

You hadn't been ready then.

You would be now.

Your stomach nearly turns itself inside out, but you force the nausea down, smoothing your expression into something steadier. Stay present. You lift your hand and motion toward the cot. He sits without a word.

Your thoughts snap into order: Superficial abrasion. Clean it, dress it, and monitor the bruising. Simple. Manageable.

You can tell he doesn't feel like talking, so you don't try to fill the space. You simply word, cleaning the scrape and studying the surrounding skin.

You're used to his joking. His teasing about your fussing. You've grown accustomed to the way he'd smile at you, like sunlight cutting through the Glade.

Now, he seems distant. Unreadable. His gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the far wall, and it unsettles you more than the injury does. After a long stretch of silence, he finally clears his throat.

"Sorry." He said quietly. "Didn't mean to bother." You look up at him; surprise inevitably etched into your features.

"No." You say at once. "You're not a disturbance. Not ever. You know that." He gives a faint huff in response. Then, you notice his hands. They're folded neatly in his lap, fingers curled in on themselves, knuckles pale. They're trembling. Not violently. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for you. "You're shaking."

"Am I?"

"You are. Does it hurt that much?"

Your mind is already moving before he answers, flipping through possibilities: Nerve irritation? Muscle fatigue? Delayed pain response? Adrenaline crash?

Tremors could mean shock. They could mean strain. They could mean his body is trying to say something his mouth won't. Your gaze flicks over him again and again, noting every detail.

"No." He shakes his head; eyes still fixed somewhere past the wall. "Feels fine."

Relief is quick, but suspicion follows right behind, because that answer simply doesn't sit right.

Your brow creases, but you don't argue. You return to the bandage, tightening it carefully, smoothing the fabric so it won't irritate his skin.

Still, the feeling won't leave you: The persistent sense that something is wrong. It lingers on your tongue. It's there, even if you can't name it.

"Newt?" You try again.

He blinks like he's only just come back to himself. When his gaze finally lifts to yours, your heart drops. His eyes are glassy, rimmed with tears.

"Oh, Shuck." He swallows, startled. "Sorry—" He scrubs his face, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand like he's embarrassed to have been caught. "Bloody hell. Sorry."

"Hey," You set the wrap aside, voice gentle. "It's okay. What's going on?"

"Nothing." He says too fast. You wait for a more honest answer. "I'm fine." He adds, sharper this time. The edge in his voice makes you lean back a fraction, more surprised than hurt. Then, he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face again. "Sorry." He mutters. "That wasn't... I just..." His shoulders slump, posture folding inwards. "I hadn't been myself lately."

You wish you'd knew what he's been going through.

You wish he'd let you.

"Hm." You study him for a moment before answering. "I wouldn't really know. You've been avoiding me."

He goes still.

"Avoiding you?" He repeats. "No I haven't."

"Yeah, you have."

"No."

"Mhmm."

"I don't think so."

"Newt, you definitely have, but that's okay." You shrug, choosing each syllable with care so it won't sound like an accusation. "You're busy. You've got the whole Glade to worry about. Someone's got to keep everyone from killing each other." You eyes drop to the bandage, smoothing it over once more. "You're you, and I'm just a MedJack."

"Just a—" His head snaps up. He stares at you like you've said something completely unhinged. "You've gone mad, haven't you? MedJacks keep us alive." He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. "You keep me alive."

"You do make it hard sometimes." You tease, and he laughs again. You smile at him a moment before steering back. "Is it getting too much?" You ask. "Your position, I mean. All the responsibility. Are you okay?"

"No, yeah. No." He sighs. "It's not that." He rubs the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the floor. "Reckon I've just got a lot on my mind, is all."

"Mm." You hum, unconvinced, but willing to let it rest. "You used to talk to me more, you know."

His eyes fall to his hands. His shoulders wind inwards like he's folding in on himself and shrinking around something that doesn't want to be seen. He presses his lips together and doesn't argue.

The silence stretches.

You let it.

The MedHut breathes around you, the distant Glade muffled through the walls. You think about how often you've seen this version of Newt: The one who carries everyone's expectations like they're stitched into his skin.

You've always looked up to him in ways you've never said out loud. You call it respect. Friendship. Oh, but friendship doesn't make your heart leap when you look at him. Even now, as he sits here, bandaged, quiet, and teary eyed, you can't escape his pull.

Too much time passes. It's enough for the silence to tip from comfortable to awkward. Finally, he clears his throat.

"You know," He starts. "I admire you." Your face scrunches in surprised confusion, and he smiles at the expression. "I do. I always have." Warmth blooms in your chest.

"Well, right back at you." A breathless laugh slips out. "I think you're pretty much the coolest person in the Glade." He chuckles, tension loosening as familiarity softens the air between you.

"Coolest?" He echoes. "Please. I limp 'round here shouting orders and pretending I know what I'm doing."

"You do know what you're doing."

"You fix all the messes I can't." His lips quirk upward. "You're the one with the big words, talking about... sub-dermal contusions and muscle supervising."

"Muscle guarding." You correct.

"Yeah, that's it." He points at you like you've just proven something. "See? Brilliant. I swear, you say things and I just nod like I understand, like when you were rambling on and one about that collarbone-y bit."

"No! The clavicle?" You snort, and he grins, pleased with the sound. The laughter fades slowly, in the same way the sun gradually dips behind clouds.

"And..." He watches you as the moment of humor settles. "You've always been really fair."

"Fair?" You squint.

"Yeah. You're fair. To me. To everyone." He swallows. "You don't play favorites. You don't get people get away with klunk just because you like 'em. You tell me off when I'm being thick." A soft smile teeters on his face. "You care, probably more than you should. That's why this all feels so... Unfair."

"Unfair?"

"To think of you the way that I do." He says, and your brows knit together.

"How do you think of me?"

For a heartbeat, you think he won't answer. His jaw tightens and his hands flex against his knees. Then, whatever wall he's been bracing finally breaks.

"I think of you like you're the only solid thing in this place. You're the one clear thought in my head." He exhales shakily. "I think of you bent over those books, trying to memorize the world until you can save it, and I believe if anyone could stitch this place together, it's you." Your pulse pounds in your ears, but somehow, he continues. "You make this place softer. I look at you and it's like... Like seeing the sun hit the walls in the morning. Makes you believe, even if it's just for a second, that maybe we're not as trapped as we think. I think of you," He stares right into your eyes. "And I don't feel so alone."

It takes a second.

Two.

Then it clicks.

Oh.

This. This is what has been sitting heavy on his chest. This is the distance. This is the silence. This is the teary eyes. You open your mouth:

"Oh, Newt, I—"

"It's alright." He interrupts. "You don't have to say anything, really. I just needed to say it. Get the words out of my head before it ate me alive."

"Okay, but—"

"I'm content being friends." He rushes on. "More than content. You're my best friend, yeah? That's... That's enough. I just couldn't keep walking around with feelings like this. S'Like it's been festering."

"Yeah—"

"It's stupid anyway." He mutters. "You deserve someone who's not... You know." His hand gestures vaguely to his leg. "Not like this. I know I'm not exactly—"

"Don't say that. Newt, I—"

"Look, if I didn't tell you, I think I'd explode, or die, or something. It's just been sitting in me for months, and every time you smile at me, it gets worse. Not worse in a bad way. Just... Bloody hell." He lets out a huff. "S'Pathetic, innit?"

He's still talking when you move. You don't plan it. You don't dissect the action to death, like you usually would. For once, you don't measure consequences.

You simply lean in and kiss him.

He makes a small, startled sound against your mouth. It's half a gasp, and half a stolen breath. He goes completely rigid. Then finally, it registered.

You've kissed him.

His hand lifts, hesitant at first, fingers brushing your cheek. When you don't pull away, he cups your face fully. He leans into the gentle pressure of your mouth.

The world narrows until all that's left is the little bits of life you feel: The cot beneath him, the warmth of him palm, and the way his lips press back against yours.

You pull back first.

Not far. Just enough for your mouths to part and your foreheads to nearly touch. His hand doesn't leave your face. His thumb rests just beneath your ear. His eyes are wide: Not confused. Not upset.

Amazed.

"It's not pathetic." You murmur, and he stares as if you've just rewritten a fundamental truth.

"...Was that an accident?" He asks cautiously. You shake your head. How does one accidentally kiss like that? A breathy laugh leaves him, and his fingers tighten at your jaw. Before you can speak again, he pulls you back in.

Thie kiss this time is keeper. Less startled. He tugs at your waist, guiding you closer and closer until you somewhat stumble onto the cot with him. You catch yourself instinctively, careful to not put weight on his injured side.

"Newt!" You start, shifting, trying to brace yourself on your elbow instead. "You shouldn't twist like that. You could kickstart the bleeding—" He simply laughs against your mouth, grip first on your hips.

"You won't hurt me." He whispers, resting his forehead against yours. "Please. This is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Don't hold back on my behalf."

You smile, because he does look so hopeful. More hopeful than he's looked in a long time. You lean down and kiss him again. There's no hesitation at all.

Your lips move together, learning the shape of one another. His fingers curl into the fabric over your back. Yours tangle in his shirt. It's not frantic or reckless. It's exactly what you've always thought love would feel like.

It's careful in all the ways that matter.

Maybe that's the irony of it. You've been accused of caring too much. Hovering too much. Worrying too much. Trying to respond to every single outcome before it happens.

Oh, but right now? Caring too much is what keeps you mindful of his injury, while still choosing him. It's what makes the kiss tender instead of senseless. It's what makes him wander to you first in times of need.

Some people care too much.

His jaw drops, ears flattening as the freckles on his face almost glow neon. “It’s— I don’t— where did you even hear that?” He asks in bewilderment.

“Lo’ak helped me learn it! He said I should ask you what it means.” You rock on your heels, hands on your hips as your chin lifts in pride.

Neteyam sighs heavily, as if the world weighs on his shoulders, and rolls his eyes. “I suppose I am not surprised.”

Some of your satisfaction drains as Neteyam tells you what a blowjob is, heat rushing to your cheeks. All these years and you’ve never tried that. “Oh.” Your ears pin back as you bite the inside of your lip. “I’ve never done that to you before.”

Neteyam gazes at you with eyes full of warmth and affection. “That’s okay, ma sevin. I love every moment spent with you.”

“Would you like me to?”

“Well—,”

“I want you to show me how. Will you?”

Neteyam pauses, eyes wide, then bobs his head yes several times in quick succession.

You grab his wrist and drag him along, basket of fruit forgotten.

☼ sevin : pretty, beautiful

☼ paskalin : sweet berry