Summary:Even years later, Minho feels like he failed.
616 words
Three years. I failed for three years while saying we were so close. I couldn’t do the one thing I was supposed to, and now nobody's here to enjoy the freedom I couldn’t get them.
Alby was always the first to lead the toast during the bonfire. He’d raise his glass, and everyone would follow. Not because he was in charge but because he earned that. He was kind but not sweet, he had a voice that commanded a room, and he made a lot out of a little.
I should have been nicer to Chuck now that I actually think about it. There’s something about watching this small kid try to be serious that reminds you how badly life sucks. There’s something about watching someone that’s supposed to be innocent live in forced corruption that makes you want to look away. He made reality real, and that made him impossible to be around.
Newt.
I can’t even think about Newt anymore. I already know that would make me do something I can’t take back.
Thomas feels shucking horrible all the time. You’d be an idiot not to know.
That doesn’t take away from the fact that he did everything I couldn’t. I failed for three entire years, and he swooped in and did everything right in three weeks.
I watched him smile with Brenda, his body still angled away from Gally. These celebration nights were his normal. It didn’t matter that there were entirely different people, the mind-numbing drink was in a cup with color, and it took place on a beach. This is normal to him, because he didn't keep getting everyone stuck exactly where they started.
Y/N was conversing with Fry off to the side. They were laughing about something. It didn't mean they moved on of course. Nobody really moves on.
They just weren't being mopey losers.
Standing up, I turned my back to everyone. Our nice little home was waiting for me. It wasn't much though. Nothing is ever really much here. Being safe isn't some magic switch that brings infinite resources and happiness. That's what we call a fantasy, and fantasies are for heroes who actually help the story along.
When I opened the door to trap myself inside, a pair of arms flung around me, pulling me back. The grip was firm even for me, her arms circling around my waist. I felt her rest her head on my back as she kept me impossibly close.
“You tired of Fry’s stories already?”
“Only if you promise not to tell him,”she teased.
I nodded in response, seeing as there's not much else to do. She didn't let go even when I did. If anything, her grip got even more protective. It almost made me question if I was having a fever dream.
“I love you. But I'd also like to be able to walk.”
“Do you need to be alone right now?”
“I,”I tried to answer only to realize I wasn't sure what to say. I was never good with words, not genuine ones at least. They risk opening up too many wounds. At least if they're internal, nobody can gush over them.
She knows already. She always seems to know when all I can think about is how if I had been faster, if I had been stronger, if I had worked a little harder, maybe one more person would be here.
If I actually say that all, I’m going to throw up.
“We can lay in silence for a little bit? We don't have to talk about anything yet,”she assured me.
sweetest thing on this side of hell — a minho-centric hanahaki au
Minho has always dreamed of Newt. It's the night after Thomas arrives in the box that Minho's coughing starts, and he still dreams of Newt, all the same.
