Night Visions (TMR) (Newtmas)

07

Dead boys were something that Thomas, taking into account his short but intense record in the Glade, didn't want to be charged with. Still, he dropped to his knees next to the boy, and shouted for help.

"Hey! Hey, here!" He waved his arms over his head like a cat pawing at a butterfly, until the boys working nearby lowered the axes with which they were trying to chop a trunk into logs and stared at him. "Alby! Newt! Someone go find them!"

"Shank, no, I'm... Fine." With an audible snarl, the boy, who apparently was conscious after all, rolled to the right so that he was lying on his back. Drops of sweat rolled down his temple as he breathed heavily, like a bull. "Whoever the shuck are you?"

Realising that Runners spent the whole day traversing the Maze, Thomas guessed he hadn't caught up with Glade gossipping. So he simply explained, "I'm new. Thomas." Let someone else fill him in.

"Oh, yeah. Sure." The boy raised an arm only to drop it over his eyes, which he had been squinting for a few seconds already. "They told me. Greenbean with the psycho girl."

"For a first meeting, that's quite the nickname," Thomas said, feeling uneasy. "But... Yeah."

"Hmpf." After another snort, the boy went completely still again. No wonder Thomas had thought he might be dead. It was like watching a statue sleep.

Then Alby popped up behind Thomas, with deep furrows between his eyebrows. Apparently he didn't know how to put on any face that wasn't a scowl. "Already back, Minho? What the shuck happened?" But Minho didn't answer. Alby, looking like he might get his bow and shoot an arrow at Minho, contented himself with kicking him on the side. "What happened?"

"I can barely talk, shuck-face! Get me some water!" Minho moved his arm only enough to give Alby a death glare. Alby was silent for a moment, which made Thomas wonder whether Minho was getting out alive of this one or not.

Before walking away to do as told, presumably, Alby made sure to warn—menace—Thomas that if he ever dared talk to him that way, he could kiss his sorry life goodbye, because next thing he knew, he would be screaming as Alby threw him off the Cliff. Whoever had wiped their memories had accidentally swept away the meaning of 'friendly' and 'warm'.

"He lets you boss him around?" Thomas asked Minho, who felt well enough to sit up. He shrugged, and wiped away the sweat on his forehead. Then he cracked a laugh.

"You scared of that pip-squeak? Dude, you got a lot to learn. Freakin' Newbies." He laughed some more.

Sarcasm was inherent to Minho, Thomas realised. It was impossible to know whether he was giving him some friendly mockery, or plainly laughing at him. Jet black hair stuck to his forehead, pale cheeks a bright shade of red, he gave off a certain authority that Alby, despite all the screaming and the swearing, could never achieve. Maybe it was the dangerous spark of mischief in his eyes, a warning that if Minho found that you needed a lesson, he would never be sorry for giving it to you, but you would indeed be extremely regretful that he ever reached that conclusion.

And Thomas found out that he would also be extremely regretful if he ever let Minho intimidate him, for all his dignity was worth. As they navigated through some trivial chatter—as trivial as the whole girl thing could be—and Minho found opportunity after opportunity to gently laugh at him, Thomas decided it was time for a change.

"So, did you find anything today?"

Minho's smile faded, and he blinked. But soon enough his lips curved into yet another smile, one of sufficiency and pride. "You know what, Greenie? That's usually the dumbest shuck-faced thing you could ask a Runner. But not today." He closed his eyes and leaned back on the grass again, and didn't say anything else.