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ruining confessions

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лучший сюжет по мнению читателей
23/о1/2о15 - 29/о1/2о15

spoilers, a lot of spoilers!



It wasn't unusual for Thomas to avoid people and be silent. Everyone there had their own ways of dealing with memories and nightmares which to tell the truth were practically the same thing. Minho also wasn't surprised to find Thomas drunk one evening - it only meant that things were going worse than usual. But what he didn't expect was shank's confession - the most terrible and shocking one.

for cheering after the heartbreak


The nightmare unfolds like a rose awakes to the spring
Oh, it's all close to the sanity I'm trying to cling to
I'm tearing out the pages 'cause it hurts
To be forced to feel the hearts break
How much of this torture can I take?

Life in the Glade was calm and consistent ever since they got there. ‘The Glade’ was the name all the survivors agreed upon giving to the place they now called home, even though there were some jokes going around about ‘The Glade II or the majestic second’ and all, but nobody actually thought of it as of something funny. It was just how this world seemed to roll, with everything and everyone being labelled one way or another, and their new homeland was in need of its own name as well. A new one that had nothing to do with the world they left behind to rot and go mad until nothing was left to fall apart and decay. So, as much as every single one of them hated their past and the Maze and the trials, all to do with WICKED, actually, ‘the Glade’ seemed to be the most appropriate option of all. First of all, the life they led now, both boys and girls, reminded their life in the Maze way too much, where order and trust were the most important things they had, this time at least knowing why they needed it all. Besides, as much as it hurt, they knew they had to remember everything that happened to them. From the very start to the very end, all that was lost and w h o was lost during the fight they never really wanted to be a part of.

Some of them did a really good job at forgetting, at least temporarily, just enough to help them go through the day without breaking into tears or freezing on the spot to stare numbly at something for hours, trying to process how the hell they ended up here. Their new life was helpful when it came to forgetting, it demanded your time and effort, not letting you to get sad. It worked for most of them, anyway. But life proved quite a few times already that Thomas hardly qualified as ‘most’, so the rule didn’t really apply to him. It was hateful in a way, yet he knew he couldn’t help it no matter how much he wanted to. ‘You get lazy, you get sad. Plain and simple,’ he kept repeating over and over again, and it helped for a while, made him work harder and pay attention to details as they built themselves a new, better life. But every now and then those same words made Thomas worse. The mere fact it was h i m who said that once was enough to set the boy off, making him sad, angry and miserable all at once. He hated it, but he couldn’t help but leave whatever he was doing at that point for others to finish so that he could go and find a quiet corner to sit in and reflect.

At first, people wouldn’t get it. Brenda would stick around offering her support, trying to convince Thomas he wasn’t alone in his grief, and he didn’t even bother to try and persuade her it wasn’t true. He wasn’t alone when it came to mourning Chuck, Alby and others. He knew he had Minho and Frypan to mourn Newt, but for them it was a loss of friend. For him, it was… different. As supportive as everybody was, he became quite hard to handle. Brenda grew distant over time, giving up on any attempts to cheer him up or stick around, Fry only looked sympathetic, but now mostly from the distance. The only one who wouldn’t give up was Minho. He’d stick around whenever he wasn’t busy with being a Leader and try to get Thomas involved in everything he could, starting with building things and supplying the whole lot with food, and ending with stupid party-like events they decided to arrange, obviously to do their best at feeling alive and human. Deep inside Thomas knew it was doing them good, but he couldn’t care enough to join or feel joyous.

‘Not in the mood, Minho,’ was the first thing Thomas told his friend as Minho entered the room, bringing the cheerful noises and laughter from outside-party along with him, quieted the moment he closed the door. The younger one was sitting on the improvised couch, a jar of ‘Gally’s special brew’ in his hand. The blurry gaze and the way he slurred his greeting instead of speaking clearly was proof enough that it was one of those rare days when everything became a bit too much and required alcohol to silence the pain. It made Thomas feel fuzzy and all nice at times, but most of the time it wasn’t helping much as well, increasing the pain to the point when all he wanted to do was to crawl into the corner, whispering ‘I’m sorry’s over and over again even though Newt wasn’t there to hear him. He wasn’t there to soothe the pain and squeeze his shoulder, saying ‘it’s bloody alright, Greenie, just let it be’ in that thick accent of his. The thought was still unbearable, and with a shaky hand Thomas brought the jar closer to his lips, sipping at it until his throat burnt and the taste of nasty liquid mixed with another, salty one. It took the boy a moment to realise he was actually crying. ‘Shuck it. Just… get lost, okay? Until I hurt you, too,’ he asked his friend helplessly, not daring to look up at him as if one look would be enough for their leader to know what he did. What he had to do, or so was he telling himself all the time.



Days went by, simple, full of hard work and physical activities. Gladers were building their Glade – the island of civilization, lost somewhere on the giant surface of Earth – cracking, maddening, frying in its pain. Minho thought sometimes – when he wasn't busy organizing, shouting and cheering guys – that there was something ironical in all this: a little group of teenagers who hardly knew how the old world was turning were trying to start a brave new one. The Leader tried not to think what they are going to do next – not in the next day or month – but in a couple of years or in a decade. WICKED's plan finally turned out to be not that helpful as it seemed at first (had anybody doubted?!) – Gladers were the strongest and the fastest survivors but they were extremely far from what was needed to revive the whole world. At least, Minho thought so, looking at Brenda cutting her finger with knife every single day, at some new teenagers chosen for the Trials no.2 – thanks God not even started – weeding clearly without knowing the difference between weed and potato and even at Thomas with his communication problems and depression.

To be honest, the last one wasn't only Thomas's problem; he was just the most evident example. As days passed by, Minho thought, more miserably every time, that they definitely needed some psychological help. Of course, he would never admit it, but even without Flare they were already mad enough. Every day the Leader was expecting a suicide from one of his wards and then, he knew, there wouldn't be a way back. Minho didn't want to deal with such a situation even inside his mind, so he just tried not to think. All in all, it wasn't the only thought to avoid. The list of such 'bad ideas' was terribly long and memories about another suicidal shank were also there.

At the day time it was easy – not to remember, not to think, just do the job of the supporting and cheerful Leader, who hadn't a chance to make a mistake. It was a demanding task and by the end of the day Minho just didn't have enough strength to stay awake facing his thoughts at the deep blackness of a tropical night. But you can't trick your subconscious with tiredness – it will just wait and fight you back with nightmares and endless fears. The first ones were annoying Minho way too often and the second one prevented him from falling back to sleep. Those were the most miserable moments for the Leader, when there was nobody to drive his attention away from what exactly his life was. Away from not even knowing what his life could be if the world just wasn't a pile of clunk, if WICKED hadn't taken his memories, family and friends away, if they were not treated like lab rats, if… Millions of 'ifs' which could make his life, at least, not that bad as it was. Of course, Minho had enough in his head to consider the new Glade to be a heaven as it was the best life he knew, but at nights of nightmares, he felt quite the same bitterness and hopelessness somewhere inside, that he just couldn't get rid of involuntary comparisons. And the duty to be a strong shank for other Gladers from one day to another didn't make the things go better.

To tell the truth, the Leader didn't know what w o u l d make things go better, so he just kept working and trying to forget. Not really, not forever – even if he wanted, he couldn't – but even not hearing Newt's voice in someone's phrase or not thinking that this head tilt was originally Ben's, counted as a victory. Obviously, Minho was more successful in this game than Thomas – he was always the supporting one, silently sitting next to his friend, grabbing his shoulder, waiting until life came to 'i'm fine' phase again. Minho never gave up in his attempts to support – mostly because he didn't want to drown in his own nightmares alone and preferred to have Thomas as a company, but also because giving up wasn't his style. He refused to accept that the shank who gave them hope during all the trials just couldn't get through the horror of the memories. Because if he couldn't, who could?

But one day the fact, that Thomas was in a deep klank, became more evident than ever before – Minho found him drinking 'not-so-Gally ’s special brew' alone in the new Homestead, mumbling words as if he was doing all that for hours and trying to send Minho away. Actually, the last thing was something new – shank never minded the Leader's presence. Surprised and somehow suspicious, he approached Thomas only to notice that he was… crying. The lucky and, in his own way, optimistic Thomas was crying in the dark corner as a girl or something even worse. Minho expected the world to end right at the moment, but somehow it remained on the track.
'Whoa, shank, slim it. What do ya mean 'too'?' Minho could hardly imagine what Thomas really wanted to say but after such a beginning didn't expected anything good. For all that, Thomas wasn't only a cheering one – he was unpredictable, and Minho perfectly knew that.

Отредактировано Minho (2014-12-26 20:24:30)


This isn t the life that I dreamed it could be
I'm staring into the eyes of the shell left of me
And now every decision I make, not good
The pleasure and the pain could simply all be erased
If I choose it to be

On any other day, Thomas would be glad to have a company. To have Minho's company in particular as he was the only person the younger one still felt connected to even though he tried hard to avoid his friend a bit too often. 'Friend'. The word somehow felt alien now, the whole concept of it seemed... off. He had a friend once, and he ended up stabbed and dead because of him, a sweet little child, innocent and with his whole life ahead of him if it wasn't for WICKED's desire to throw another shucking Variable at them. And then was another friend, an old best friend, in fact, but she ended up betraying him in a way he could never fully forgive until it was too late and she was dead, protecting him. And then was another friend, the one he trusted, the one he truly cared about and wanted nothing more but to keep him safe. Instead, he shot him in the head. Plain and simple. So much for their friendship. So much for Thomas as a human being. And now, there was Minho, another friend that eventually will end up dead because of him, no doubt. Wasn't it about the damn time to start and keep the distance? Wasn't it about the time to try and do something right?

'I mean what I mean!' he shouted, though the slurr in his words made it not much worse than a baby's tantrum, probably sounding ridiculous and bordering 'cute' at the same time if it wasn't for just how miserable he became ever since they destroyed WICKED for good. God, he was pathetic, wasn't he? With all the self-pity, trying to drown his pain in a jar of the worst drink on a planet - no offence to Gally on this one, God knows, he tried hard to make the thing taste fine - and sitting alone in the corner. But it was better this way, his solitude allowed him to trick himself into thinking people were fine and forgetting him forever. He couldn't bear to look them in the eye, a murderer of too many people he held dear. At worst days like this one, he thought about leaving the Glade. Just wandering off, starving to death somewhere far away where nobody could see what he'd become, a shadow disappearing as sun sets, a ghost of a bright 'not-quite-sure-if-a-hero-or-just-an-idiot boy' he once was, an image way too distant now, barely resembling the new version of him. 'Everybody around me dies eventually. I kill people, Minho. One way or another, I just destroy them where they stand.'

As much as he hated WICKED and as selfish as such an attitude was, sometimes Thomas wanted their new life to be just another part of Trials. Another Variable to throw at them and see how they'd react, another way for the hateful organisation to mess with their heads. Oh, he dreamt about it way too often, looked around for signs, for anything at all, whispering to himself 'I'll do whatever you want me to do, just let me know if you're here. I need you.' And indeed he did. He needed WICKED to help him, if men and women in familiar suits came now, he'd drop down on his knees without a single thought, pleading, begging them to take his memory away, to help him forget everything that happened, to give him h i m s e l f back. Because forgetting was a bliss, a new start, a blank page to fill in anew with something pure and memorable while the old manuscript burns to never be seen again by a reader or author himself.

Grinning at the way too familiar thoughts now, the ex-runner took another sip of Gally's brew, coughing at the taste and standing up just to sway a bit, his legs obviously failing him and making him cuss under his breath. Leaving the room was obviously not an option anymore, unless he wanted to try and face-plant without ever reaching the door, and it made him angry somehow, so angry it almost felt unhealthy in so many ways. It felt sick, Thomas felt sick, and yet again, in a way he was.

'Oh, you know what? Just stay. You seem to enjoy the company of somebody so broken and destroyed, so pathetic, so why the hell not?' he spat angrily even though it was unfair to make his only friend go through something like this and he was being horrible, trying to wreak his anger on Minho just because he was actually strong enough to stick around no matter what. But at this point it wasn't Thomas speaking, it was his sharp pain mixed with misery and a fog of alcohol, destroying all the barriers, destroying consciousness, destroying everything that this young man tried  to hide from everybody, including himself, every single day. The horrible truth that would for sure drag a few of them down along with Thomas. He knew Minho wasn't supposed to know a thing, he knew it wasn't wise to open his mouth now, his rational part screamed and begged him to stop, to slim it, to shut the shuck up, but he was too drunk to care. That was the moment he was telling the truth, and it was up to their Leader to decide just how much he hated the fact. How much he hated Thomas.

'You want to know why 'too', don't you? Well, swallow this: I killed him. Shuck it, Minho, I killed Newt.'

Отредактировано Thomas (2014-12-26 21:36:06)



Something was wrong. Minho felt it somewhere inside his chest – a little worm of worry, sense of coming horror and misery. First it appeared back in the Maze, when he started to get closer to Thomas, understanding that he wasn't a 'normal' shank. Those days seemed to be so far away, as if it were dozens of years since then. But Minho knew perfectly that it wasn't because the memories still hurt the way too much as not enough time had passed to calm down the pain and dry out the tears which, however, they had never cried out. An alarm rising in Minho's chest as Thomas spoke was something that reminded the Leader about the old times, WICKED and trials. Not that he had ever succeeded in forgetting it completely but this particular feeling of 'something-is-wrong' made Minho turn his head to make sure that they still were in the Homestead number two, not o n e. The Leader hadn't felt this type of worry since they came to their island and expected to never feel it again.

But, as it always happened to him and his friends, the alarm rang again and Minho was completely unaware of what it meant. At least he tried to persuade himself that he couldn't even guess what that feeling meant. Because the guess – frightening and so believable – made Minho shiver and feel anger rising from the every cell of his body. Although this guess was an incarnation of his most terrible nightmares, he couldn't stop thinking about it, and now the pictures, inspired by his unhealthy imagination, were flashing inside his head unbearably fast. Minho knew that Thomas had worked for WICKED before the Maze, although this fact had never bothered him personally as he and the shank were always on the same side. And as well as the Leader knew that his friend hadn't let Rat Man remove the Swipe and give him his memories back, Minho knew that Thomas had been through Changing and the further he went, the shabbier his memory block became, so maybe – just please let it be only 'maybe' – Thomas had revived something awful and terrible from his head. Something which made him feel all that miserable and week, something which could influence all Gladers if they knew about it. Something which Minho thought was the new trials. Somehow he became sure and desperately angry about it, feeling the world, which they had been trying to resurrect with such a desire and difficulty, falling apart only because of the shucked organization.

'Believe me, there is no joy in looking at your shucked, tearful, girlish face, but you behave as either an idiot who can't understand that there is no use in drinking, reflecting and avoiding friends, or as a shank who knows something terrible and not willing to share it' Minho wasn't very happy saying that, maybe he even felt a little bit sorry for being tough and impatient, but being the Leader together with his hot temper gave him no choice. Thomas, at least, never minded him showing his temper and swearing. As well as he never minded his presence, but Minho tried not focus on that. 'If you are the first, I can only punch you in the face to knock this clunk out of your head, but if you are the second, do me a favor, speak your mind and slim with it'

Minho had hardly finished his emotional phrase as Thomas stood up, spat and said something which couldn't reach the Leader's mind. Something which he surely didn't catch or misunderstood. Because it was completely impossible – he couldn't even imagine Thomas stabbing or shooting Newt. Hitting, punching, arguing, screaming or kissing – yes, that was something fitting in the image of Minho's world, but killing – even ill, infected and no-longer-so-Newt – was positively impossible. The Leader admitted that Thomas was much better in keeping the spirits up and being calm and reasonable than he was – although Minho wasn't that sure about it now – but from every other point he considered them being equal, and as he knew that he would have never been able to kill Newt himself, no matter what, he couldn't believe that Thomas could.

'Sorry, what?!' Minho approached Thomas, shortening the distance between them in a second, catching his friends' shoulders and shaking him as he was trying to shake the truth out of him literally. By doing that he begged it to be a joke – the most disgusting and terrible – but just a joke. Then he could just scream at Thomas getting into his shucked head that he is the worst joker on the planet and should never open his mouth to say something funny again. Then it could be just forgotten for good, left as any other stupid thing said by this shank. But Thomas's look, his anger and isolation, attempts to avoid everybody and, most of all, his tears, made Minho almost sure that he had said the truth – Newt was dead not because other cranks had beaten him to death, fighting for food, weapon or whatever else, but because Thomas – his friend and companion – had killed him. 'How could that happen?! You, shucked pile of clunk, tell me, how?!'

Отредактировано Minho (2015-01-04 16:07:22)


If you could rewrite our life any way that you pleased
Would you tear up the pages of our memories?
Would you take back the pain and all the hurt we create?
Or could you be satisfied with the promise you made?

The silence between them, short and sharp, was absolutely deafening, it was ringing in Thomas' ears, making him feel even more insane than he'd ever felt before, and it was clear to him there was no going back now. The truth was out, hanging in the air, floating between them even though the younger boy didn't really expect Minho to trust him easily, just like that. He sounded like a mad-man on an average day, not to even mention that he was drunk and barely standing at the moment, weighted down both by guilt and alcohol as if to make his trustworthiness even worse. And yet, the Leader was aware now, and it was nothing more than a matter of time now. He would believe at some point. He would believe and blame Thomas for this horrible deed just as he blamed himself this whole time. Soon, every single glader would know as well, and the boy who was their hero once would be nobody again, just an outcast, a murderer of one of the closest person he had to the family. 'Never harm another glader', that's what Alby used to say back in the Maze. Ben tried that, and he ended up exiled. Was it his fate now? Was Thomas one step away from being banished from their 'little paradise' everybody fought so hard to build as a truly perfect and peaceful place? That's what ex-runner thought as they stood there, a mere few seconds while Minho tried to process the information he just got.
And then he made a move.

Perfectly sure his friend, well, ex-friend at this point, most likely, was there to punch the life out of him, Thomas closed his eyes in a poor attempt to prepare himself for all the physical pain to come, so much kinder and tolerable than what he felt emotionally. He was ready to take it all, he deserved it, after all, and even if Minho decided to kill him right on the spot for what he'd done, brunette wouldn't put up a fight for his life, not at this point where he saw himself as a burden for everybody around him rather than anything else. But there were no punches and no throwing him across the room, instead there were strong hands on his shoulders, as if shaking him awake, and it was impossible not to open his eyes in response to that. Thomas' mistake, though, was to actually look at Minho, to look him in the eyes, confirming everything that'd been said before, sealing it in once and forever. And even though he was sure there'd be no pain greater for him than the pain from losing Newt, from k i l l i n g him with his own hands, it destroyed Thomas all over again to see their leader's face change as he realised it was all true, his features hardening with hurt and rage. With his friend's betrayal.

'That time we saw him last, when he was all angry with me... I didn't know why back then, but it was all about his letter, the one he gave me before we went to Denver. He wrote it just to ask me one thing, to kill him before he gets too sick, Minho. And I k n e w I'd never be able to do it, I couldn't imagine it,' with his voice shaky, Thomas struggled to talk, to let it all out, but the bitterness of situation along with bitterness of alcohol made it so much harder, it made the boy weak, his knees failing him at this point so that it was the leader holding him up now, his grip tight but surprisingly careful, almost gentle despite every right Minho had now to hurt him back. For Newt. It was ironic in a way, thinking about it all over again, remembering how it felt when he actually believed he'd never kill his friend, never even see him again to start with. But life sucked and was cruel on so many levels, it didn't need any WICKED plans to make it hard on him all over again. Out of all cranks, out of all people lost to the Flare, he had to see Newt on his way back to WICKED and try to talk to him as any other friend would do. 'And yet I did just that. I saw him on the street as we were heading to WICKED's base. I just wanted to talk to him once more. You know, I missed him. We all did. But he'd lost it, he jumped at me, saying all those crazy things, but then... He got better. For just a second, Minho, he got better, he went back to his normal self just to ask me, to beg me to do it. He pressed the barrel of the gun against his own head, it was all too much, I just couldn't... I wanted it all to end, I just wanted it to end.'

Tears were pouring down his face by now in a never-ending stream, and his voice was weaker than before, barely audible. He hated himself for it all, for this weakness here and now, for everything that he'd done, for the pain he caused with this truth, not even daring to look up at Minho again because just one look might be enough to kill him at this point. Unless his friend decided to kill him quicker, of course.
'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Minho, I truly am.'



Minho felt that he was done for now. Surprisingly it turned out to be the way too much for him. He tried so hard to carry on, to be strong, to be the Leader as he knew it was his vocation not only because WICKED proclaimed it, but as he felt it somewhere, deep inside. But what Thomas said, the unbearable truth which this shank couldn't keep inside anymore, broke something in Minho, as if he was shot down by an invisible bullet, as if Thomas shot him, not Newt.
The Glue was a taboo for Minho. Absolute and the strongest one, as he knew perfectly w h a t would happen if he dared to break it. He hoped Newt's name to be never mentioned again, never said aloud, as it hurt so sharply as nothing else in this miserable world. But finally it happened, Thomas had broken the unspoken rule in the most rude and terrible way. And, to be honest, Minho wasn't ready. Newt was the best the Maze gave them and he was the worst thing to be taken away. Thomas could be a bright and shining shank, inspiring and strong, but Newt was always their hope and base. Reliable and calm he could unite so different people in one group, could make them believe in great, great things. Minho knew how to rule and lead people but he couldn't provide them with one general idea which would make them fight their tooth and nail to make it real. Minho was the head of the Glade, but Newt was its spirit. And now he was gone, killed by the heart of it.
Beloved and ashamed 'heart', which would never forgive himself for what he did. For what he claimed to be the last Newt's wish. Minho felt so stuck, stricken by the idea of Newt asking, b e g g i n g to be killed by the friend, that he just couldn't stop shaking Thomas, obviously holding him as the boy was too drunk to stand on his own feet. Eternity seemed to pass until Minho realized that and set his friend free. 'Friend, all in all'. One his part screamed to beat Thomas to death, to make him pay for the pain he caused reminding about Newt being dead, revealing it aloud, leaving no doubt about his fate. Minho wanted revenge but he was reasonable and sane enough not to blame Thomas for all the clunk in the world. Not really blame, at least.
'Shuck it, Thomas', that was all Minho could say, still confused, shocked and unimaginably hurt. 'Sit down, you're barely standing'.
Minho could say so much more, but he knew that it would ease neither his pain, nor Thomas's guilt. The last one was almost palpable, obvious in his hidden eyes and preparedness to be beaten as a dog. Minho had never seen him so prostrated, depressed and lost, and would like to never see him in such mood again. How the shank could think that Minho would have enough strength to be angry and wild at him after such words, the Leader didn't have a slightest idea. All he felt now was pain – sharp and remissive.
'Finally, you did the right thing. Nobody wants to turn into a wild animal, and he also didn't. It was a… mercy, in some way', Minho didn't mean to say that, words just popped out of his mouth, revealing the actual t r u t h about the world they lived in – 'What clunk the life is when killing is a mercy!'
The Leader didn't expect to hear so much passion and anger in his voice, he didn't even expect to ever feel them again. But the scream – low, bitter, coming from the deepest and darkest part of the soul – was a thread to life, and somehow Minho knew that however miserable he was at the moment, he would live his way out to normal world, where such simple and precious things as happiness and calm existed. Minho knew he would do it – for his Gladers, for Thomas. And for Newt.


And so we rewrite our life, but it's not what we think
In the chaos we dance as we stand on the brink
Oh, it's one change away from making ourselves complete
The world will perish in flames and I'll watch as you fade from me

As Minho shook Thomas in utter horror, pain and disbelief, the younger one felt his eyes dry little by little. He knew way too well it was nothing more than a pause before tears would start running down his face again, but at the same time, he felt at ease in the most unexpected and sick way. For a moment it felt g o o d to know he had no more secrets to keep, it was a relief, as if the weight of the world was taken off of his shoulders. The truth was, though, that it wasn't. Another weight was there to stay, the weight of guilt that anchored him down every single day, making him sink so low he was constantly drowning, cursed not to ever die and suffer for as long as he tried to breathe. Thomas hated himself for trying. Yet he was always a fighter, the one to go on even when the worst was happening to him and everybody around him (wasn't it why WICKED had chosen him, after all?). But everybody, even the strongest ones, had their breaking point they reached sooner or later, and brunette was somehow sure this was his. He was more than just done with everything, and he was definitely done with a non-stop ache in his heart. How easy would it be if his friend just beat him to a pulp and left him to die here? The thought plastered a sick creepy grin onto his face, and for a second there the boy thought about provoking Minho. It would be hardly fair, of course, the ex-runner knew that, so he didn't do a thing about that. It was his duty now and his duty only to figure out how to put himself out of his misery.

He didn't try to do anything funny, though. He could've run outside and out of the camp, into the woods to be eaten by whatever animals were left alive deeper within. He could've grabbed a sharp knife and end his life plain and simple, and he knew he was courageous and desperate enough to do that if it came to this. But instead, Thomas nodded in response to Minho's offer to sit down, yet making no attempt to follow the instruction, turning around instead and simply leaning against the cool wall, his forehead pressed against his folded arms. He couldn’t say for sure how he managed not to fall on the ground the second his friend let him go, he felt like there were no strength left within him, and yet he stood still, weakness in his knees remaining there though being less obvious. At least for now.
The silence between them was just as heavy as before, it engulfed him completely, embraced him, creating a vacuum, an illusion of safety and peace. But they were far from it, peace with such a knowledge shared between them was never an option. Nevertheless, Thomas kept his mouth shut, waiting for whatever the Leader had to say to him. Maybe he'd just decide to punch the life out of him any moment now, and brunette knew there'd be no struggle on his behalf. He was never suicidal, not till their last Trial. Not till he killed Newt, and judging by the boy's last angry words about his attempt of suicide in the Glade, the idea of killing himself being contagious.

He woke up from his own thoughts only when he heard Minho talking again, and things he said… Oh, they triggered something inside of him.
‘Mercy?’ he heard his own distant voice full of tears again as if he’d never stopped crying, not even for a brief moment. Their leader was right, the world had become the shittiest place to ever exist, with new rules for survival that bordered insanity even for a few sane remaining and pushed them too hard way too often. But killing somebody… That was still something else. Something that Thomas could n o t call an act of mercy, no matter what the circumstances was. For him a murder was still a murder, especially if it wasn’t a crank long past the Gone that they were talking about. Especially if it was his friend, for shuck’s sake! He did something that was both unforgettable and unforgivable, and there was no way he’d think about it differently. ‘Mercy, huh? Then, would it be fine if I begged y o u to kill me now? Would it?! Come on, then, just put m e out of my misery just like I did for him because I don’t… I can’t feel this pain anymore. It’s too much. It’s all too much.’

Still facing the wall, Thomas stood there, shaking violently. That was it. He had given up quite some time ago and now he made his last move, admitting it to the only person that truly mattered at this point. He thought that maybe it was the way Newt felt back then, helpless, shaken, destroyed to the core, but not wanting to die on his own, consumed by his insanity. Because Thomas for sure didn’t want that to happen to him, but the grief was swallowing him whole and he felt helpless and numb, with one desire left, if any, just wishing Minho’s fingers to connect around his neck, ending it once and for all.



To tell the truth Minho expected Thomas to agree with him, to nod and to moan about the world around them. At least expected him to say that he understands that he had no choice and his rational part tells him that he did a right thing, all in all. But looking at Thomas – lost and changed in the face, as if Minho actually hit him – made the Leader sure that it was not how his friend thought about the situation. It became clear that Thomas hadn't even tried to find excuses for himself, carrying his guilt every second of his lifetime. That was something as surprising for Minho as this shank struggling and surviving his first night in the Maze, because on some level it was the same thing. It was some kind of strength which Minho could neither describe nor adopt. 'Always doing unbelievable things, no matter how demanding they are', but the Leader knew that there were so much more than that in Thomas and that it was his mission and his cross to bear.
And Minho knew that he would never let this shank to give up, no matter what. No matter how desperate he was, leaning here against the wall, shaking from head to foot, his face invisible but definitely wet with tears. Saying these words of his, full of weakness and unhealthy sarcasm, making a joke with too much truth in it. And for a one, darkest moment it made Minho angry – not like just a minute ago when he was ready to scream his lungs out in useless attempts to revenge the world for its crap, but really angry with Thomas for him saying all this suicidal scheme, for giving up and being so selfish. The world melted in Minho's eyes and he couldn't tell exactly how he managed to cross the room so fast, approaching to Thomas with one strong intention – finally hit him as if physical pain could bring normal Thomas back again. Without hesitation, anger burning in every piece of his brain, Minho slapped in the shank's stupid head putting all his strength in the hit. Thomas's head must have bumped against the wall as the Leader heard a dull sound on the backyards of his mind but he didn't care for now. He just put his fingers around shank's neck and pushed as hard as he could to turn his face to his own. To make him look straight in the eyes and listen very attentively.
'Listen to me, shank. You know just fine in w h a t Newt was about to turn into. A monster, a zombie who would kill you without even thinking about it, without that moral dilemma of yours. That was what you wanted for Newt – crawling with other cranks and eating human brains?! Hope you not, and you better not, because if you did, I'll punch all the clunk out of you in a second. You did what you did and shuck with it. Newt is gone but we are not, and for his sake, don't be a girlish shucked sap, because I know you're not. And because y o u also know you're not'.
The Leader finished his tirade with the strongest feel of shame. He didn't mean even a half of what he said but it was too late for know. He would find it fare if Thomas decided to return him a hit or shout back something crazy. Minho understood that he made thing even worse for Thomas reminding him vividly about events of the past. Hurt Thomas was the last thing he wanted to do but his sudden burst of anger was exactly that did it. Minho sounded like he would do the same in Thomas's place but he wasn't even a little bit sure about it.
Still holding Thomas by the shoulder, Minho closed his eyes in attempts to concentrate, to find some words of excuse though he knew this shank has his full right to never forgive him. Rolling his own words over and over again, Minho's imagination accompanied with his memories – too vivid at the moment – was creating images for not seeing which he would give anything in the world. He remembered the way too clear how wild and desperate Newt looked at them back in the Crank Palace, like some outside force was making him to point the weapon on his friends, making him scream and shout and nearly cry with anger – so unusual, unnatural for Newt – making him go crazy and swallowing him in its void. But back then he was still sane – no matter how hard Minho tried to convince himself of opposite – unlikely to what he was when Thomas met him in Denver, 'jumping at him, saying all those crazy things'. Minho could see it as if he were there: shabby, ragged clothes, once given by WICKED, his long, tangled hair, gray with the dirt and mad face with chin and cheekbones sharper than ever before and eyes glittering with disease and crazy desire to feel nothing. That image as if printed with fire shone on Minho's eyelids as a barrier between him and the outer world, making him feel disgust, compassion and mostly pain at the same moment. And for now Minho got it – why Thomas wanted it all to end, and knowing that, feeling it so deeply inside made the Leader literally sick and infinitively sorry for reminding.
'Oh, shuck it, Thomas, I didn't mean to. I'm a shucked face idiot, you know that, and I'm so shucking sorry' Minho felt stupid, saying these meaningless words, knowing of w h a t pages of the past Thomas is thinking right now. 'Just tried to say that we need you here and know. That I need you'.


Regrets collect like old friends
Here to relive your darkest moments
I can see no way, I can see no way
And all of the ghouls come out to play
And every demon wants his pound of flesh
But I like to keep some things to myself
I like to keep my issues strong
It's always d a r k e s t before the dawn

Physical pain was a truly amazing and horrifying thing. When unwanted and unexpected, it made you howl and crawl and whither, too strong and unbearable to at least be tolerable. But then, all of a sudden, it could become something good, something relieving and welcomed, just a representation of something hidden deeper within you, something so fragile and emotion-based there was no other way to express it and let it go rather than through the ache that came from it. Thomas was never a self-harmer, though, never really this easy to be shaken to the core, to start with. But Newt’s death changed that, it changed everything. It shifted the very ground of his personality, made him doubt himself, doubt all the good he had within and it h u r t badly. Badly enough to be grateful for the pain he felt as Minho bumped his head against the wall, he felt that sick hope that his friend was about to oblige and actually kill him. Thomas didn't flinch, didn't make a sound except for a small whimper that was barely a whimper of pain, rather a gross sob as he kept crying, curling his lips in a pretty terrifying smile that screamed of relief. Finally he could rest, he could forget it all and let the horror of his deed go away once and forever, taking nightmares with it. As Minho's fingers clasped hard around his throat, he gasped for air, satisfied with a sensation tight grip gave him. Even if he wanted to, even if he wasn't this drunk and this out of shape, he couldn't fight back without being hit and choked again. His friend was always this much stronger than him, after all, and just as always, the ex-runner was actually glad that's how things was between them two.

But as the Leader pinned him against the wall by his neck, it wasn't really murderous intent that was gleaming in his eyes. Rage, yes, and a lot of pain, but nothing like a desire to kill him. Though his words did just that, Thomas felt like Minho kicked him straight in the junk, making him cough and choke and fight against his grip and howl soundlessly, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe even after strong fingers released his throat. Somewhere deep inside the younger one knew his friend had a point. Nobody wanted Newt to turn into a friends-killing machine that'd chew on their faces and laugh sick-cheerful while doing so. Nobody, especially not Newt himself. Yet all the anger of the older boy brought back something that was stronger than any rational thought, stronger than anything fair and correct that he himself or Minho could say. It all brought back the memories mixed with every single nightmare he had ever since he shot one of his best friends. Oh, there was plenty of those, it started plain and simple, with Newt standing up right after the shot to laugh into his face insanely. Sometimes the blonde would take the gun and shoot back with a victorious smirk on his face, and Thomas remembered waking up terrified yet with that slight feeling of hope that maybe he actually died. Problem solved, no more regrets, no more reliving of his darkest moment. But then he had to go through the day again just to meet the night with a worse nightmare each time, Newt killing him slower, hissing into his ear just how much he hated him, just how much he resented his 'friend' for having the guts to murder somebody.

There was always one detail, though, that never changed from nightmare to nightmare. He always woke up to the sound of the shot taken. There was always that numbing loud 'bang' that made him shake and jump up in his bed, screaming till his mind calmed down at least a bit, leaving behind nothing more than this drumming noise consisting of shots. Sometimes it came to the point where Thomas would hear it throughout the day as well, wherever he went, the noise would follow, loud enough for him to feel dizzy, hardly hearing what others have to say to him. And now, after what Minho had said, the sound was there again. Vivid and rich, shaking Thomas' body fiercely despite the Leader's grip on his shoulder and wiping out every apology his friend tried to make, only the 'I need you' part barely coming through.
'Oh, no... Make it stop, just make it go away' he cried out as his body trembled and his hands covered ears as if it could actually silence the drumming rhythm of the shot going on and on inside his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it made things even worse, it made i m a g e s and absolutely real, palpable sensations pop up. 'Bang,' and the blood splashed all over his shirt. 'Bang,' and the soft pleading voice gone quiet. 'Bang,' and his friend's body went limp, lying on top of him as he struggled to comprehend what he had done. 'Bang,' and the world went dark once and forever. 'Oh my... Oh God, Minho, please... Make it s t o p.'



Nothing ever was more wrong with Thomas then it was now. Neither waking up in the Glade, nor Teresa's betrayal made him go so… crazy? There wasn't another proper word to describe the shank now, so Minho used this one despite hating it with all his heart. Minho hoped to never see anything 'crazy' again – he had enough of that in the past, full of cranks and real madness. But he was unlucky. For a terrifying second the Leader thought that the Flare finally got his friend – mutated somehow, hiding for a while, pretending to not exist, and now popped out to remind them of how horrible their lives really were. As if crying, depressed and overwhelmed with his guilt Thomas wasn't enough. But in spite of being really afraid of his friend's mental state, Minho was sane enough to not panic and realize, that it was nothing more than alcohol mixed with really painful thoughts which hunted his friend for a long time.

Even trying to guess what was going in Thomas's head right now made Minho feel dizzy and stunned. He didn't want to know what his friend asked him to stop or send away, he knew that just the only one thing in the world would be a right thing to do at the moment. And Minho did it: grabbed Thomas wet, suffering face in his arms, pushing his friend's hand away from his ears, and kissed him hard and tough, catching himself on a thought that it's his first kiss he would remember and that probably he is doing it in the wrong way. But these thoughts faded away in a moment, leaving only the most important one in his skull: he did it to ease the shank's pain, to take at least some of his guilt, to share their common grief and to show him finally that he is not shucking alone. Minho knew that he was bad at cheering up and saying right words at the right place and five previous minutes had proven it precisely, but he couldn't leave Thomas like that – drunk and desperate with something terrible catching and devouring him, so being a man of act, he did what he did, feeling that it may be a straight way to darkness and hell as well as a way to final joy and happiness.

'Shut up, Thomas. Shut shucking up, and let us never – do you hear me? – never recall anything bad about Newt again. Just let him be a fair and true guy in your memory, the limping blond spirit of our gang who never wanted his friends to give up'.

Minho moved away a little, still holding Thomas firmly in his arms in case he would decide to struggle and escape. However, he couldn't even imagine his friend's reaction – it could be anything from a low blow to a kiss – he felt neither awkwardness nor shame for his actions. He strongly believed that the shank couldn't be as blind to an obvious expression of care as he was deaf to any reasonable words, so somewhere deep inside, where ancient instincts lived, Minho knew, that he did a right thing, no matter what happens next.

Suddenly Minho knew that he finally got the meaning of a simple truth which occurred to him so many times but was always too difficult to accept: they had no power over their past and never would – and it was painful, plain and simple – but what he knew now was that they s h o u l d find good things to remember and do their best to concentrate on them, ignoring the fact that it's only one side of a coin. It was a lie, in one way, but it was also a way to a normal life for which Minho was so eager, and he knew the way too well that you always have to sacrifice something to achieve anything. And sacrificing memories of miserable Newt, facing his madness, in order to remember just a simple bloody boy, was something Minho wanted since The Rat Man read the list of non-immune 'subjects' back in the WICKED headquarters. And as much as the Leader wanted to forget, he wanted friendliness and confidence – two words witch characterized old good Newt most – be a spirit of the Glade and his friends. Instead of the real ones which also associated with Newt the way too strong – despair and death.



If you're gone, then I need you
If you're gone, then how is any of this real?
When I'm on, I believe you
When I'm not, my knees don't even seem to feel
How could you tell me that I'm great
When they chew me up, spit me out, pissed on me?
Why would you tell me that it's fate
When they laughed at me, every day, in my face?

Bang, bang, bang. The noise was absolutely devastating as if there was no world around the boy anymore, just an abstract ocean of noises that came down to this. To a single noise of shot fired in the daylight, the shot that cast the darkness on Thomas once and forever even though it didn't seem like it back at the moment. Back then, the runner was sure - no, he was hoping, though - that he could brush it off as something of no big importance. Just an accident, you see, a thing that just happened for no particular reason. 'I didn't mean to shoot, I'm not a killer, even if it's an act of mercy whatsoever.' Nobody gave a damn about his excuses. Not even Thomas himself. He only wished he could turn back time and fix everything he'd ruined. Fix Newt. No, fix WICKED with their shittiest of all the shittiest plans of the world. He had to make it right for the group of teens, immune or not immune. If only he could... If only he was brave enough to stand against it back then, b e f o r e the Maze, maybe things would be different now. Maybe Newt would be alive. He had no way of knowing that for sure.

What he d i d know for sure, though, was that he missed it, the moment when when the noise stopped abruptly, replaced by the numbing silence and soft, insistent lips pressed against his own. Wait, what?! He was too slow to both process what was happening and to react, though nor his mind or body were screaming 'alert, intrusion, intrusion!' He was ridiculously calm, well, taking into account all the alcohol in his blood that made it hard not to sway even while standing still and not to shake slightly as if constantly nervous. But deep inside, ex-runner wasn't panicking or thinking things were getting out of hand. The kiss felt... comforting on many levels, the clumsiness showing just how sincere and caring it was. Thomas was about to kiss back properly when Minho decided to pull back, barely taking a breath before muttering again, something about him shutting up and Newt and how he shouldn't think about their friend any different than if he was still alive and still the same.

And he actually realised at this particular moment that Minho was right. Better late than never... It was all falling into place now, all the tiniest realisations, everything Thomas forgot because of his guilt and grief. He could hardly believe it took him this long to get to this point, that he didn't think so earlier, that it wasn't a slow process of coming to this conclusion. He felt decperate just a few seconds ago. And now a simple truth was dropped upon his head by Minho in one heavy blast: Newt would never want him to be this way. He would never want him to suffer as he did now, he would never approve as he always approved everything his friend did. Even back then, at the old Glade, when 'that bloody Greenie' ran off into the Maze before the Doors closed just to save Minho and Alby, and damn the consequences, the blonde was on his side. God knows was he mad, yes, and their sedond-in-command was pissed with how reckless and stupid it was of Thomas, but there was never any judgement of the act itself. Newt made it very clear that he though Thomas to be an idiot, but a brave and caring one. And now... The ex-runner felt as if he had betrayed the blonde's belief so much worse than he betrayed him when he pulled the trigger. 'Quit wallowing and bloody pull yourself together,' he could practically hear the older one snort next to him in that slightly arrogant and yet delightful manner. 'You have a more important matter at hand. I k n e w you shanks would end up like this.'

'Good that,' it was probably a weird change, but Thomas found himself grinning slightly in a crooked way as he spoke, not sure it he was responding to Minho or good old Newt in his head, assuming that because of this not-so-typical facial expression he whether looks terrifying or completely bonkers. Both, maybe? Either way, it didn't really matter now, not when there was this stillness in the air and worried expression on the Leader's face screaming of his tension. What was he waiting for? What was he expecting, a low blow or something? The mere thought seemed funny in a way, but Thomas was never 'a funny guy' to laugh out loud at such things. Besides, at this moment Minho could interpret it wrong on so many levels it would hurt him. Not just him, though, Thomas would hate to see even more pain on that Asian shucked face of his than he had already caused tonight. He knew there were some amends to make. 'If you are thinking I'm going to forget it all by tomorrow, then yes, there is a slight chance. I wouldn't hope too much, though, because I don't want to forget this,' he muttered somewhat breathlessly and did the only possible thing that could put Minho's mind at ease about the whole thing. Thomas pulled him closer by his neck, kissing his, uhm, friend much more tender and softer, not caring about how clumsy he was at kissing and still leaning back against the wall for some leverage. Minho's lips on his weren't really helping much with sobering up and not being weak at the knees.



It felt like eternity has passed, and the fact, that Thomas was drunk as hell had nothing to do with that. It was Minho's perception which played tricks with him. He suddenly felt something what he would describe as panic attack but there was so much more than just panic – Thomas's cracked smile was literally a spring of sorrow and pure pain but still it was a s m i l e – genuine, vivifying and with hope hiding in the corners of his lips. It was a scary thing to look at but Minho absolutely could not turn away, staring and feeling as if second were a year. Surprisingly he recalled his fist encounter with a griever – somehow Thomas's smile felt similar. Minho couldn't tell exactly what creeped him out so much but it wasn't necessary because what happened next casted an avalanche of twisted emotions upon him, that a moment when he thought that he was losing and escaping reality became insignificant and was devoured by something bigger and much greater.
It surprised Minho what an ease he felt when Thomas said that he wouldn't like to forget. A second ago he hoped only to calm Thomas down, just be able to help, using the last mean he had, but now it occurred to him, that he wanted to hear more than just 'Thank you, shank, I'm fine now' or see it in Thomas's eyes. Deep inside he was waiting and hoping for that simple 'I don't want to forget' which was alarming but filled Minho with something very close to happiness. He had never expected to experience that after hearing the shocking truth about Newt and seeing his best friend in the most desperate mood, in which he could ever be.
'What an irony', - Minho thought when Thomas drew him closer and kissed tenderly as if the Leader was something about to break. Somehow it seemed to be funny and glader couldn't hold a snicker, stretching lips in a wide smile for a second when Thomas pulled back for a little. They were both drunk and lost and alone in the shad and Minho couldn't find a reason to stop what they were doing. He honestly tried but feeling slightly trembling Thomas's fingers on his neck gently touching his skin made all possible 'no-s' evaporate from his head just in a second. His best friend was close to him as never before and nothing else mattered.
Followed by nothing else but pure instincts – especially taking into consideration the fact, that he had absolutely no experience except accidentally seeing some gladers embracing girls from Group B in the dark corners of the new Glade – Minho put his rough palms on Thomas's waist pulling him even closer. There was absolutely nothing in his head – just blinding awareness of a strange and deep feeling which was sleeping until this day. Feeling to Thomas and feeling that his friend is physically attractive which was some kind of revelation for Minho. Whipped up by this thought, the Leader lifted Thomas's shirt for a bit and slipped under it carefully passing hands up his friend's back.
For a moment Minho thought that it could be too much for him to hold Thomas so close while kissing without any intention to ever stop, but then something flashed in front of his inner view and despite not understanding what it exactly was he was embarrassed and exited at the same time. He felt that he is blushing but Minho was never a shy one, so he grabbed Thomas, lifting him slightly upon the ground and pressed him against the wall making this shank to wrap his legs around his waist.
'Me neither' – the Leader whispered in Thomas's lips, now forgetting about everything completely and for long.

Отредактировано Minho (2015-07-26 17:58:33)



Everything that happened now seemed so surreal to Thomas he was about to start thinking it was nothing but a drunk wet dream. After all, it seemed to be the only logical explanation. He probably just passed out in the middle of the conversation, too drunk and ashamed of what he had done to be able to cope with reality. It was a good escape, wasn't it? Just blacking out not to hear what Minho had to tell him, not to see his betrayed friend, the only one Thomas managed to keep safe, not to talk and find some sort of excuses as he himself was nothing but a set of excuses ever since he shot Newt in the damned head. And now as the truth was hanging in the air between them, filling it with unhealthy electricity, these slow and hot kisses were the last thing that could actually happen, it was just as unnatural as the thought of their Leader laughing at the news of Newt's death or something like that. And yet, the ex-runner knew he wasn't asleep. Very close to it, very close to the borderline when the booze-hazed reality slips away from you, heavy and alien. But he was here, and so was Minho, and so were the older one's lips on his own, their kisses sloppy and needy and everything Thomas didn't realise he needed so much.

And he did, he needed those rough palms on his skin, sliding up his back and seemingly burning marks to stay there for hours and hours. He needed to feel his own back arch to the touch, silently asking for it, asking for more, drowning in every sensation and craving it with his whole heart and body. It was insane and absolutely ridiculous, in a way, Thomas couldn't think of a single time he looked at Minho t h a t way. His friend was attractive, yes, and a lot of fun to be around in their best days just as much as their worst, but this... This was something so much deeper, carnal, physical mixed with just how close they got over Newt's death. So much closer than ever before, so much closer than they were in the Glade or the Scorch.
'Shuck it...' Thomas cussed under his breath as Minho pressed him against the wall, the motion so simple and yet somehow sobering, clearing his head just enough to realise he wrapped his legs around the older boy's waist without even thinking about it, the gesture being a pure instinct, a very perverse one if you thought about it closely. But even if so, the runner didn't want to change a thing, gasping for air and clinging to Minho's shoulders as if he was holding to his life itself. In a way, he was. 'Take this damned thing off already,' he breathed, clawing at his friend's shirt without much success as he was the one pressing down on the hem of it with his legs which made the process so much harder.

And yet Thomas didn't seem to care much, not anymore with booze and lust and shame mixed and boiling in his blood all at once. He didn't think about his lack of experience, didn't think about just how far they could go, he didn't even think about the door being open right now, giving anybody a chance to come in any time they fancied to witness whatever they were up to right now. And judging by how fiercely Thomas struggled and fought to get Minho's shirt out of the way, they were up to quite a few things anyway. 'There should be a law in the New Glade forbidding you to wear any shirts at all,' he muttered almost angrily as he finally managed to ease the thing, ripping it off of the older boy the very next moment and throwing it aside, his hands being all over Minho's strong torso straight ahead. 'It's warm enough here anyway, why bother?' he grinned, still looking slightly ill and insane while doing so, and yet leaning in to press his lips against Minho's neck, nibbling and licking and kissing with a curiosity of a newborn making his first steps.

Отредактировано Thomas (2015-07-19 18:17:30)



The world around felt… well, the only right word Minho could think of to describe it – if he had cared, of course – was 'life'. Vivid and sparkling gulp of freedom, which he had never known. In which he would like to drawn and lose himself. He could never think that Thomas's lips were the thing, which would make him feel so alive, more alive than ever before. And he definitely could not think that a terrible thing, which Thomas had said, would give him such a strong wish to comfort his friend. Maybe it was just his way to confess in how much Thomas meant to him or it was ridiculous passion, hidden up to the moment, but absolutely normal for a teen. Frankly speaking, Minho didn't care, not a bit. All he wanted was to scream – of happiness or of absurdity of the situation, and so he did, breathing heavily in the shank's mouth, turning a scream into something much more explicit, something that sounded like a groan.
'What the…' Minho didn't bother himself to finish the phrase, grinning widely and wildly at Thomas's desperate attempts to relieve him from the firm grasp of the clothes. Somehow he felt an intense to say something dirty, something he would never say in sober mind, and he could hardly stop himself from doing that. Thanks God, Thomas anticipated him, creating the most weird rule of the Glade and making Minho actually i m a g i n e it in full colors, with his mind, urged by alcohol and closeness of a young and suddenly greedy body. 'All right, shucked face, but you come under the rule as well. And I'll accept no excuses'. Minho giggled stupidly, still wondering, how many and what kind of questions he would be asked, if he took Thomas's idea seriously.
Probably he would still be in some kind of muse if two things didn't happen so suddenly and simultaneously that it made him shiver and then laugh strongly and sincerely. Minho had no idea, why the sound of tearing clothes and then Thomas's lips on his neck had such an effect on him, making him press his friend harder over the wall in order to keep him safe from the risk of hitting the floor. The situation w a s funny, but for Minho it reached an almost unrealistic apotheosis. He stopped laughing putting nearly superhuman efforts to that, because there was only one thing he wanted to do more than laugh and that thing demanded a little bit concentration. Still allowing Thomas to kiss and lick and do whatever he wanted with his neck, Minho slipped under his shirt with his hands and passed over the shank's shoulders, making him raise his hands, and taking useless clothes off him. For a second Minho hold his breath, unsure about the next steps and staring at Thomas who was obviously hungry to touches and kisses.
'Shuck, Thomas, what would…' Words stuck in Minho's throat as if a thought, which suddenly flashed in his mind, was a bullet that went through his neck. He wasn't sure that he could and should finish a phrase – all in all, they were somehow close to happiness a second ago and what he was about to say could break this fragile peace to pieces. But Minho felt that he not just should say it loud, he m u s t do so, because anything they had now was for share and pain wasn't exception. 'What would Newt say? That we are selfish drunk idiots, who don't care about friendship and friends? Or what? Would he tell us to continue and enjoy ourselves? Would he curse and spit on us? Or would he like to join? Shuck, Thomas, I don't know and it terrifies me! Like I knew once, but have forgotten, forgotten Newt! Do ya understand me, Thomas? Do ya?'
Minho shook Thomas again, leaned forward to him, hugging gently as if looking for comfort and mother tenderness, which he had never known. And in fact he was looking for it, keeping it secret even from himself, subconsciously hoping that Thomas could give it – by saying something or holding him tightly in his arms or kissing softly. It was a silly and childish hope that someone else would like to solve his problems, but weren't they just children, lost and buried under the cruelty of a mad world? And wasn't it natural and logical, even for the leader and a tough guy, to share this burden with the ever closest friend? At the moment he thought that it was, and he almost didn't care whether it was the first mistake on his way to the fail or it was just a second of natural weakness intensified by alcohol and terrible truth.


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