Night Visions (TMR) (Newtmas)

10

A second before the walls slammed shut, he caught a glimpse of Newt's eyes. The boy had ran after him, but his hobble significantly slowed him down. Something flashed in their minds—

"—Everything'll be okay. Trust me on this. We'll make it," Thomas whispers in Newt's ear. They're both crying, and hugging so tight, holding each other with such strength, that breathing's difficult. But it doesn't matter, not if that means that they can be together again. Even if it's only for a few seconds. Even if it'll hurt more later. The only thing that matters now is them."

The vision faded away, and Thomas heard the doors booming together, the sound echoing all around him, like a madman's laughter. He blinked, still feeling Newt's tear's salty taste in his lips. His hand opened and closed, missing the tight squeeze from just a second ago. He suddenly wished he was in the Glade again —but it was late. The doors had closed, and there was no going back.

He turned away from the doors, unable to continue watching them, and faced the Maze's darkness. A veil of darkness seemed to cover the sky; twilight had fallen. The giantic walls looked like enormous gravestones. Thomas wanted to hysterically laugh at that comparison. Gravestones. They were pretty appropiate for the situation.

Fear quickly filled him, the way water fills a tub. The consequences of what he had done seemed to fall heavily onto his shoulders, and he weakily wrapped his arms around his torso. It was pointless, though. He knew he wouldn't feel any better.

Alby's sharp cry broke through his shock, and got him back into reality. He turned around, and saw Minho, who had pulled himself up. Bruises and scratches covered his arms and face, and he had dry blood stuck to the skin, which had turned almost yellow. But that wasn't the worst part: it was his eyes. Thomas had only seen him once or twice, but the mischievous sparkle he remembered was completely gone. 

"Greenie," Minho said, "if you think that was brave comin' out here, listen up. You're the shuckiest shuck-faced shuck there ever was. You're as good as dead, just like us."

Thomas felt his face heat up. "Wow. Welcome. I couldn't leave you guys out here, you know?"

"And what use do you think you are out here?" Minho snorted, and then covered half of his face with a hand. "Whatever, dude. Break the Number One Rule, kill yourself, whatever." He shook his head, and his shoulders plummeted.

"Welcome," Thomas repeated. An urge to kick Minho right in the face arose. "I was just trying to help."

"Great way to go. They'll have to dig three graves instead of two."

Before Thomas could retort anything, Alby whined again. Stopping the fight for the moment, both boys knelt down besides him.

The Glade's leader was in a terrible shape, and got worse and worse with every second. His usually dark skin was losing its colour quickly, and his whole body was doused in sweat, which made his wounds glow in a grotesque way. Maroon blood creeped across the Maze's dirty floor; some small plants, which had made their way through the concrete, showed now a mixture of green and dark red. Each quick, irregular breath threatened to be the last one.

"What happened?" Thomas asked, not knowing what to do. He rubbed his palms against his pants. He wanted to help Alby, God knew he did, but he didn't know what to do. His mind was completely blank, as if every single useful thought or idea had been sucked into a vacuum.

"Don't wanna talk about it," Minho said as he checked Alby's pulse. He bent over, and stuck an ear to his chest. "Let's just say the Grievers can play dead really well."

That statement surprised Thomas. "So he was... bitten? Stung, whatever? Is he going through the Changing?" He couldn't help remembering Ben's face, and a cold feeling crawled down his spine. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy.