Newt Imagines (The Maze Runner)

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Minho almost screams, trying to block out the grief building in his head. He doesn't even think with his own voice anymore; his inner monologue switched over to Newt's at some point, Minho can't remember when. He can't remember much of anything anymore. Past becomes confused with present. Future switches itself out with past.

Minho lies down in his bed/hammock/place in the desert, hands pressed to his head. The tears are waiting for him like an old friend. It is never enough of a relief to make the pain stop. He watches the stars swim in and out of focus, and at last unconsciousness takes pity on him and steals him away. Minho closes his eyes and tries not to dream.

Newt is running as fast as he can, hurtling around corners and leaping across corridors. This is what he was born to do, what he can do better than anyone else here. The only shank in the entire bloody Glade who could hold a candle to him is by his side: Minho, quick as ever, somehow wearing that familiar sharp grin of his despite the fact that they've been sprinting for hours.

A bitter voice in the back of Newt's head whispers that this is good, that at least Newt can count on someone decently skilled being here to run the races if he's gone.

If he's gone.

The voice corrects itself. When he's gone.

Newt stumbles over an invisible crack in the pavement and goes down without much ceremony. Although he tries to pull himself up just as quickly, Minho still heads back to him with a look of concern etched into his features. They clasp hands like old friends and Newt is hauled to his feet.

"Everything alright?" Minho asks, chipper as always, "you know, if you want a break you can just say it. I would never need a chance to stop, of course, but–"

Newt snorts, swatting his friend on his shoulder as they catch their breath. "Is that why you're wheezing like that Track-Hoe, Mendel, when he misplaces his inhaler?"

Minho snorts. "I would never do that."

Still, he leans up against the wall of the Maze, shoulders slumping against a strand of ivy as he regains his breath. Newt watches everything, the way Minho tilts his head back to suck in lungfuls of air, how the dark strands of hair stick to his temples. Minho's eyes flutter shut, all systems on standby in an effort to stop from imploding.

That same voice threads back through Newt's skull, telling him to treasure this moment, because there won't be that many left. It isn't that they're close to figuring out an escape, it's that Newt won't be there to see it. Newt clenches his fists at his sides, trying to get his mind to shut the hell up, but the voice refuses to be silent.

Minho arches a brow. "You sure you're good, Newt?"

Newt follows his line of sight and stares at the three circles of red quickly drying into the hot ground of the Maze. They're from him, he realizes, beads of blood from where he's forced his fingernails into his skin in an effort to make himself better. Newt compels his fingers to open with great effort, but he's not sure that it's done anything to make Minho believe he's alright.

Minho straightens up from the wall and walks slowly over to Newt. "Seriously, Newt, what's going on?"

Of course he's concerned. Newt doesn't lose control, he never does. No matter how many friends they lose, how far they are from figuring out an escape, Newt stays positive. Someone has to. Somehow it's always ended up being him.

Newt makes himself look up from the copper stains on his palm to Minho's eyes. "I'm fine," he says, "really, I am."

Minho nods slowly. "Alright, then. How about you prove it by beating me to the third left turn in Section Two, huh?"