Title from Richard Siken poem
Minho keeps catching glimpses of Newt all over. He chalks it up to grief. Vince mentioned something like this during his speech on coping. Minho's sure that's all this is. Until the day he sees Newt. Not just a flash of blonde hair in the corner of his eye. But the actual, full size, spittin' image, to scale, in technicolor, bona fide Newt. Leaning against a tree, so casual, watching him. It's a full minute before Minho gets his mind and speech back in working order. His brain gives his mouth a kick and before he can stop it, he blurts, "You're dead."
Newt blinks at him, unconcerned. "Yes," he agrees slowly, condescendingly. "And your brain's been fried multiple times. Are we done stating the obvious?"
So that's how it begins.
The first night, Minho is scared to sleep, scared that if he closes his eyes, Newt will disappear. He lays in his hammock, fighting the urge to slumber, eyes wide and glued on Newt's frame where it stands by the tent's support beam.
"Go to sleep," whispers Newt. "You'll see me in the morning."
And Minho does. He sees him that morning, and the next, and the next, and the one after that. Newt is never intrusive, never gets between Minho and his daily tasks. Just sort of hovers nearby, offering sarcastic observations with his usual biting humor and Minho laughs, ignoring the stares when he does. Over time, Minho starts pulling away from everyone else, preferring Newt's company over theirs. That doesn't stop them from trying to include him though.
"Hey man, we're all heading down to the beach. You wanna come?" Fry invites.
"No! I don't want to go to the beach," Minho snaps.
Fry looks hurt, backs away slowly, joins the excited group already running for the shore. Minho turns to Newt and finds him studying him closely.
"What? It's not like they're any help anyway," Minho mutters defensively.
"They're trying."
Minho snorts and for a brief second, something like sadness comes over Newt's face. Then his expression returns to its customary indifference and he follows Minho up to the cliffs.
"You know," Minho starts, legs dangling over the edge. "I never got the chance to thank you."
Newt stands above him, hair tossed to and fro by the ocean breeze. "For what?"
"For saving me."
The people down below look so small.
"Me? I barely did anything. You should be thanking Thomas."
Minho squints up at Newt's silhouette, set on fire by the setting sun. "Come on, Newt."
"Brenda too, we never could have pulled it off without her," Newt continues. "Oh, and while you're passing out gratitude, you might as well give some to Gally."
Minho shakes his head, chuckles under his breath, looks out to sea. "That's something I'll never quite get used to. Having everyday conversations with someone I speared in the chest is probably the weirdest thing I've ever done."
"I can think of something weirder," Newt replies cryptically.
Minho twists his head to look at him. "Yeah? What?" he challenges.
Newt takes a long time to answer, but when he does, he makes Minho wish he'd never asked.
"Well, you're also having everyday conversations with someone who stabbed himself in the heart."
Minho doesn't see Newt for a few days after that. At first, it's kind of a relief, because Minho is mad and sad and guilty and he doesn't need Newt there as a visual reminder. But then he starts missing him, starts to get overwhelmed with sitting at the long table for dinner with a crowd of jabbering voices, with the grass and twine ball games they play, with Fry's repeated attempts to drag him into conversation, with Jorge's scrutiny and Brenda's worry, and the nights that are darker and lonelier without Newt leaning against that stupid post directly in Minho's line of sight.
He gets up just before dawn one morning. Slides out of the tent silently, slips down to the shore, contemplates the waves and what it might feel like to drown.
"Don't be an idiot."
And just like that, Newt is back.
Minho prefers the cliffs to the beach. He likes the height, the view, the arduous climb up and down. He and Newt spend a lot of time up here.
"Teresa saved Thomas. At the very end. Died doing it too," Minho begins without preamble.
Newt doesn't look as surprised as Minho had expected him to. But then again, Newt showed an awful lot of tolerance for Gally as well. Perhaps knowing you're going to die a horrible death from an incurable disease in a couple days puts you in a forgiving mood. Minho wouldn't know. He probably won't ever have the chance to find out either.
"Good," is all Newt says, but without bitterness or malice.
They're coming back down, Newt moving effortlessly while Minho sweats and pants, when Minho spots a knot of people standing near the bottom. As far as he can tell, the group consists of Thomas, Fry, Gally, Breda and Jorge.
"I think they're talking about you," Newt says.
Newt is right because as soon as Minho reaches the end of the path, they approach him, all wearing identical expressions of sympathy that he really, really hates.
"Hey man," starts Fry, like always.
"Don't," says Minho.
"Minho, come on," Gally admonishes.
Thomas holds up a hand, "easy, Gally," turns supplicating eyes on Minho. "What we're trying to say is that we're worried about you."
Minho's gaze drifts to Newt. The others follow his eyes, but see only jagged rocks and softly waving grass. Thomas takes a step forward, hand raised to touch Minho's shoulder. Minho jerks out of reach.
"Look, I miss him too. I do, believe me, I do," Thomas whispers, all earnest and desperate. "But he wouldn't want this for you."
Minho shoots another look at Newt. Silent, wide-eyed Newt. And he thinks of Newt leaning against the tent post, thinks of Newt down there in that pre-dawn surf.
"You're wrong," he mumbles.
Thomas' brows furrow. "What?"
Minho doesn't repeat himself, emboldening Thomas to speak again.
"Minho, all Newt wanted to do was save you. He gave everything he had so we could rescue you."
Fingers curling into fists, Minho glares at Thomas, wills him to shut up. But can't get his suddenly dry mouth to function.
"He wouldn't want you to live like this, because this? All this moping around and separating yourself from us? The talking to yourself? It's not good for you," Thomas continues. "And Newt wouldn't want that."
Minho runs his tongue over his lips, finds the moisture he needs to form words. Looks at Thomas. And whirls on Newt.
"Is that true? Huh? Is it? You don't want to be with me anymore? You want me to try and live out my life here on this island, pretending to be happy?"
Newt falls back a step, face pale and expression frightened. Minho advances, crazed and angry.
"Is that what you want?!" he screams, spit flying, eyes wild.
He swings at Newt, hears the exclamations and curses from the others, then he's getting grabbed from behind. Gally's large arms circle around him, pinning his arms to his sides. Minho struggles, crying and squirming. Gally lifts him off the ground easily, just enough so that he has no leverage to free himself with, is powerless to do anything but shout and threaten, tears pouring off his face. His vision is blurry but all he can see is Thomas. Not Newt. Where's Newt, where's Newt? Thomas and Fry. Not Newt. Where's Newt?
When he wakes, he doesn't see Newt leaning against the support post. Instead, Thomas is slumped uncomfortably against the metal wall and that's how Minho knows he's not even on the island. They put him in the ship.
"Minho? Hey, Minho." Thomas gets to his feet slowly, looks exhausted. "You awake?"
Minho doesn't answer, just turns his face away.
He's back on the island. According to Fry, he looks better now. According to Thomas, he's doing better now. As long as they shoot him full of whatever kind of medicine they managed to steal from WCKD on their way out here. As long as they sneak the needle under his skin while he sleeps, he doesn't see any more dead people. He doesn't walk around in a daze, bloodshot eyes and skeletal frame. As long as they prop him up at the table and talk at him, he doesn't hold conversations with a dead friend. As long as they drug him, he can't see Newt.