Newt Imagines (The Maze Runner)

there is no other version of this story

Newt stands on the outskirts of the Glade, watching the Runners file in from their daily mapping excursion. He'd been one of their number once, glorious athletes tasked with the salvation of their meager civilization, but those days are over now.

Newt doesn't think anyone here will understand why he jumped, not yet. Perhaps they'll get to that point in several years if they still can't find a way out. For now, Newt will content himself with the questioning stares, the whispers hidden behind hands, as proof that at least the rest of the Gladers are doing better than him. If they don't see what he saw, they still have hope. That's something, at least.

He still remembers how it felt to balance on the wall of the Maze. He'd climbed as far as his mind would allow, then paused there for a moment, clinging to the ivy on the side with all the life he was about to lose. For a moment, a breeze had blown against Newt's cheeks, and he had been content. He chose the memory he wanted to keep the most, and let that laughter fill his ears, not the wind whistling as he kicked off from the edge.

The pain had taken the glow of that past day away, but the joy had been Newt's for that brief instant. He won't jump again, even if the others let him out of their sight long enough for a second attempt. Newt pictures the look on Minho's face when the Runner found out that he would need another partner in the Maze. The expression hadn't fled Minho's countenance even after Alby left the two of them alone.

Newt keeps that day tucked behind his eyes instead. Minho had spoken to him, voice dusky and hollow, and made Newt promise that he wouldn't ever leave again. Newt hadn't wanted to swear the oath, knowing too well that even if he made up his mind, this life has a way of breaking your words for you, but Minho had been adamant. Now Newt is saved for good. He doesn't like betraying his friends, and certainly not the best one of them all.

A shadow darkens his own, and Newt looks up to see Minho jogging up to him.

"Anything interesting?" Newt asks as casually as he can.

Minho lifts a shoulder. "Same old, same old. One of the Builders was skulking around the Map Room, I had to threaten him a little to make him leave. If he comes to you complaining, you better tell him to beat it, right?"

Newt chuckles, force of habit. Minho is just as quick with the subject change as always. He doesn't like bringing up the Maze around Newt, perhaps afraid that it'll stir up bad memories or remind Newt of all that he gave up for those brief moments in the air.

"The Builder wasn't robbed of much," Newt counters, "The Maze doesn't have a lot that anyone could possibly want."

He says it more savagely than he should, lip curling with the disgust of someone who's seen too much. Minho steps forward, placing his hand on Newt's shoulder. Newt doesn't know how Minho is always so strong, so sure of himself. Newt second guesses himself by the minute, but Minho has the confidence of a thousand men. Then again, that's hardly a surprise. Minho has always been better than him.

Minho opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs at last. "Remember your promise."

Newt eyes him unhappily. "It's a worthless thing to swear. People get hurt all the time. It's nothing we can control."

"You can try," Minho says simply, "that's all I want."

Newt rakes a hand through his hair. Minho watches the movement, eyes flicking from the twitch of Newt's hand to the fall of the blond strands back to their original resting place.

"I'll try," Newt manages. If it's a lie, both of them refuse to call attention to it.

The sun is rising faster than Minho would like. The early hours of dawn are his, at least, no one is awake to bother him. Once there are people around, they'll start asking questions like if he's okay and how he feels. The answers are meaningless, everyone knows that Minho is doing awfully and never will be able to recover from this again, but at least they'll have put in the effort and can assuage their guilty consciences accordingly.

He shuts his eyes, drawing a ragged breath. Once again, he asks Newt why he died. Didn't Minho make him promise? Didn't Newt swear that he would live, only live, and never cause Minho this sort of agony ever again?

It is pointless, of course, to beg for a better ending. Minho has known for quite some time that Newt was going to die. Perhaps Newt even knew it back in the Maze, perhaps that's why he tried to– why he wanted to save himself the trouble of everything else. That, after all, is the truth. Newt has been gone from Minho for a very long time, if he was ever truly Minho's at all.

Someone has to leave first.

Newt is watching Minho, waiting for the other boy to crack, to reveal some sort of exhaustion that will allow Newt to escape. No matter how long he stands there, though, there is no freedom, no respite. Minho's heart still beats, and even though Newt once hated it when he was waiting for his leg to mend, Newt is still someone cared for and needed. The only thing that will separate them is out of their control, but then again, it is precisely because neither of them can control it that they will try their hardest to do so anyway. Fate likes it when people try to thwart it. Fate knows it will come out on top anyway. There is nothing any of them can do about it.

This is a very old story.

A shout comes from across the Glade, someone calling for Minho. Both of them flinch, and Minho's hand tightens on Newt's shoulder before he manages to control himself. Minho swallows hard, looks away, then says something about seeing Newt later for dinner. As he starts to turn away, Newt is swept by the need to stop him, to say something more, anything to get Minho to face him one more time. He's forgetting the details. He just needs more time.

There is no other version of this story.

Minho leaves, one hand casually raised as a goodbye. Newt watches him go. It's a hot evening, stemming from a hot day; the air ripples with the force of it, distorting Minho's retreating figure. In that moment, just before Minho vanishes from sight, Newt realizes something, a cataclysmic something that won't happen to him for a few months more. Someone will regret this someday, but it won't be him. No, it will be the survivor, and Newt's fate is set in stone.

The sun emerges from the clouds at last, golden and assertive as ever. The day has arrived, Minho's solitude has ended. Minho can hear the footsteps starting to gather behind him. He doesn't turn, not yet, not until he has to. He wonders if he will ever forgive himself for losing the one person to matter most to him in the world. He wonders if that sort of forgiveness is even possible.

Newt would want it, Minho thinks. It might be true, it might not. Regardless, Minho will cling to that hope until he can see him again. Maybe then Minho can ask for real.