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@hiscrankbride
”Yeah, those skinny arms of yours wouldn’t do me much good, huh? Shit though… I need that watch for the maze. Think it’d be stupid of me to go in without one on?”
"I think you're stupid to go into the Maze at all," he said too honestly, then bit it back. He'd been a Runner himself, after all. "Get a new one. Should be a spare in the Map Room."
random thoughts race through his head as he tries to think of a way to help distract newt. a thought, a really stupid thought, popped into his head. it might actually work. pressing a kiss to newt’s jaw, he smiled and nuzzled against him.
❝ did you know that there actually is a word that rhymes with orange ? sporange. it’s a botany term. ❞
Somehow, it worked. Mostly because it startled him enough to make him laugh. He tipped his head so Callum could keep kissing his jaw, eyes shutting. He was wound so tight he thought he might break if something didn't change, if he didn't lash out and one more person contributed to the itch. But a little bit of the tension had melted, just a fraction, with the words and the kisses.
"What's it mean?"
Whether its obliviousness or naive apathy, Newt doesn’t seem worried. Though perhaps, instead, it’s merely an almost childish amount of faith in his brother’s ability to keep him safe. What could he say? For all the teasing, Isaac was pretty brilliant. Which of course, were words that could never be uttered out loud in his brother’s presence—he refused to be responsible for fueling the others ego even the slightest, even when it was slightly deserved.
"Y’know, you’re got some bloody strange priorities there.” That being said, it didn’t stop him from grinning, and it certainly didn’t seem to stop him from tagging along. “An’ pray tell, jus’ where are we headed?”
He knew it anyway. He believed it, rather--never so much that he got cocky, but he believed (because he had to) that he was smart enough to save Newt. He couldn't accept any- thing less from himself. Newt was smart too; he knew that. If their roles were flipped, he'd have been just as confident that Newt could save him.
"My priorities are perfect, thank you," he said, logging off his tablet with a few taps and dropping it at the desk before they reached the elevator. "If I look at any more computer screens today I'm going to get a migraine, and that's no help to anyone. So I'm freeing my brother from the same torment and dragging him up to the roof for lunch and an afternoon of relaxation."
It wasn't really the roof, of course. No one in WICKED, immune or otherwise, was allowed outside once they'd entered. But the top three levels of the facility had walls of bulletproof glass, and the very top level had a glass ceiling as well and was reserved for leisure activities. Isaac knew all too well Newt hadn't been allowed so high up in months, as the scientists prepared him endlessly for entering the Maze. So he was giving him one last shot at the sky.
Minho was shocked, honestly, at the boldness of Newt. He was shocked at the way that his hands wound tighter into Minho’s shirt and pulled him closer, and he was shocked at the fact that he himself had wrapped his arms back around the boy. He’d missed him, and he’d been worried about him. He was glad to hug the boy, even if it was only for the time being. "I don’t care—" He interrupted after the boy told him that he would have to let him go. Because that wasn’t an option. It never was an option. “Untested cure. Who cares? Everyone here is immune, and I can keep you in check. You’re not going to infect anyone, and you’re not going to hurt anyone either. You’re cured, and that’s all that matters.”
He shook his head, a quick jerky motion almost like a dog shaking itself free of water. He knew Minho wouldn't give up, knew he was too stubborn. This was the person who'd dragged him back from three separate suicide attempts, after all; he'd had plenty of chances to give up and never had.
"It's not--I'm not better. I'm never going to be better." He shook his head again, the same spasmodic motion, and his hands tightened in Minho's shirt. "I don't want to live like this. I'll try but--I don't know how long I can do it."
Wasn’t helping dead people Lydia’s job? Cos sighed, rubbing his fingers through his hair for a second as he took in everything that the other boy was saying. Solar flares killed half the planet and likely half of the worlds living creatures including humans. The Flare, which sounded like some kind of disease that affected the remaining population killed most of the survivors of the Flare. It sounded like the future was shit.
"Alright." Cos resigned, defiance deflating. "Alright, fine. I’ll help you. I think I know where to start but I’ve got to — talk to someone else about it.” He knew only one other person who knew anything about the Nemeton, and that was Deaton, but the Nemeton was responsible for a lot of weird shit, if anything drew the guy here, it was probably that fucking tree.
”C’mon, Caspar. Gotta see a guy about a fucking tree.”
He smiled, thin and satisfied, when Cos finally agreed to help him. That had taken long enough. He didn't need to be friends with the other boy, but acknowledgement that he was around and wasn't going away was some- thing. The Flare seemed to have stopped, maybe even retreated a bit, when he died; but it was still aggravating as hell being stuck like this and worse when he couldn't actually do anything about it.
"All right," he said, hopping 'down' from his seat on the air until he could at least have some semblance of walk- ing. "Now I've told you my story, so you get to tell me yours. I've seen people grow hair and their eyes start glowing and klunk, so something's weird about this place. And start with this 'fucking tree.'"
❝ i was five years old when the world decided to burn. my sister was in the yard, playing with her friends while i was inside because i was grounded. my sister died in the first five minutes of the solar flare ; i remember mom n’ dad holding her, crying. the smell was what i remember the most, though. we survived for about a year, my parents and i. then the flare broke out and they got sick. turned into cranks and then i was alone. wicked found me. took me in and saved my life and i was in debt to them. but.. not anymore. i can’t work with them anymore after all that they did. ❞
He listens, but his expression doesn't change. "Which part couldn't you handle?" he asks, voice still flat. "The part where they put dozens of kids in a giant rat trap? The part where they wiped our memories so that none of us even knew where we came from? The part where they gave us numbers and names and stripped away the most basic parts of our identity? Was that what you couldn't handle?"
He takes a step forward, and he's not level anymore. He's fighting anger and it's obvious in his face. "Did you start questioning when Sox tried to kill me? When I said we should banish him? When Gally scratched his name off the wall? Or maybe when I jumped--did you lose your faith then? Or when one of our youngest killed himself by running into the Maze as the Doors were closing? Or did it take until you were in the Maze with us? When exactly did the list of WICKED's sins grow too long for you to stomach?"
"I feel like my learning curve is a bit steeper than yours." It’s gritted through his teeth, mostly for the effect of self pity than to try and tear Newt down. Sure, the guy had broken his leg in some horrific accident, but he got better, bar the limp. Getting better wasn’t in the cards for Finn, and everybody knew it.
They stumble along for a while, Finn fighting to keep his balance without seeming too desperate for Newt’s help, before the boy gives a shaky sigh. His headache had been building up for a while, but it was beginning to reach the brink of excrutiating.
"Need… need t’take a break. Let’s sit down for a bit."
It was true, so Newt didn't reply to it. He had it much easier than Finn in that respect. He'd eventually made a full enough recovery that he could do anything but be a Runner again. Finn had to relearn even the most basic of actions, had to sharpen his other senses until he didn't need sights. Compared to that, walking on a weak bone and atrophied muscles was a cake walk. But Newt had to believe in him. He wasn't going to let one more name get scratched off the wall, not for this.
He was careful, trying not to force Finn to catch him or support his weight too much, not when it was his first time out since his own accident. He named the places as they passed them, trying to let Finn start mapping the Glade in his mind without making him seem weak.
The second Finn said he needed to take a break, Newt nodded. "We'll go over to the wall and sit down, okay? It's not far." He turned, carefully guiding Finn over to the wall and sitting down beside him.
T h e M i g h t y G l a d e r s
☠
He can't even comprehend what he's seeing. Everything after Alby leaving his side is so profoundly wrong he can't even process it. It's just a blur of color, awful moaning and screaming sounds and then--and then--
His machete is in his hand before he can think and he charges at the Griever, fully willing to die if it means the monster dies too. But he doesn't get the chance. Someone--Minho probably--restrains him and drags him safely past the monster. The monster that's spattered with red that Newt can't even process. He's not sure where Alby went. He's not sure where he's going. Everything is too much, too much of too much, and he can only stumble after Minho, numb even to the pain in his bad leg, blindly fumbling for Alby who was supposed to be on his other side. His hand meets only air.
❋
They're drunk. He admits it. He'd kiss Callum sober, but that's not an option right now. Kissing Callum drunk, however, is. So, in celebration of finals being finally fucking over and of finally loosening up enough to drink at all, he grabs Callum by the front of his shirt and drags him into a kiss. It's messy and their teeth clack together but he really doesn't care, he's too high on success and liquor to bother complaining and Callum's mouth tastes too damn good.
&.&
He's been Alex's pillow before, and he's okay with it. Sleeping on top of him is the only way they can both fit in one hammock without topp-ling it over, and he doesn't like sleeping in the Homestead--too confining. Tonight, he just smiles and leans up to press a kiss to Alex's temple before lying back and drifting off himself.
"And what I do isn’t perfectly legal? I don’t know how it’s not; all I do is walk around like a pretty little toy and choose the person who gets to play with me. Like a one night stand, except I end up with pockets that were a little heavier than before. Nothing wrong with that. Or, at least, Officer Jordan doesn’t seem to think so.”
He snorts. "Fine, fine, you're a paragon of society. Better?" He shakes his head, an almost fond smile on his lips. Leo's confident enough, and certainly pretty enough, and he evidently has no qualms with the fine print of the law. Newt does, but that's fine. He's not asking Leo to give up his life of whoredom.
slurred words~~
"He should leave. He should. He should stick with Minho. Stop answering when I come to their house fucked up at three in the morning but--but--he won't. He's too stupid, or stubborn, or something. He won't and I'm gonna fuck them both up and probably kill us all somehow but he won't let me go and I'm--I'm not strong enough to let him go."
☞ + idk alby???
His fingers drum nervously on his arm as he watches the Box. It should be here by now. It's alway been here by this time. He seeks out Newt for the thousandth time, then once again counts the Keepers who are around.
Finally the question pops out of his mouth before he can stop it. "What happens if it doesn't come?"
