This scene is set at the end of chapter 8 and before chapter 9 of "The Death Cure" when Thomas, Newt and Minho are locked in a room overnight (after refusing to get their memories back)

That night, Minho tried his hardest to get some sleep, but he found himself staring at the ceiling with eyes wide open for what felt like hours. The light in the room was not helping his efforts, though they had dimmed considerably during the time they were there, like an artificial sunset of some sort. Minho sighed as he rolled over, trying to get comfortable as his mind went over the events of the day. He could not get Newt's taut expression out of his head when he'd heard his name being called out, unblinking and tight-lipped. He'd seen the shiver that had gone up his spine. Despite the warmth his bed offered, he itched to look over the side of his bunk and talk to Newt, but he knew better than that. If they were going to talk, it'd have to be when they were alone, and with Thomas still awake on the other bunk bed, this was impossible. His mind surged with anger for Rat Man and empathy for his friend, and he knew that sleep would not come to him for hours. He resolved that if Thomas fell asleep first and if Newt was willing, he would have a talk with him.

And so, Minho waited. As much as he liked Thomas and had grown close to him in the short time they'd known each other, he felt that he should not really be a part of the chat he was trying to plan out for Newt. It just wouldn't feel right if he was there. As Minho tried to organise what exactly he wanted to say to his friend, his thoughts became muddled and he found himself even more lost for words than when he started.

Finally, he heard the gentle rise and fall of Thomas' chest and Minho knew he had drifted off. He waited a few minutes, allowing Thomas to fall deeper into his slumber and listened for any sign of life from Newt, who had not made much noise at all since they'd all gone to bed. Presently, he heard a quiet sniffle and Minho sat upright. He peered over the edge of the bed. Newt's eyes were scrunched shut, his brow creased as he bit his lip. Minho heard Newt's breathing hitch and he knew he had to do something.

As his foot made contact with the first step of the bunk bed's ladder, he heard Newt roll over to see him coming down the steps. When he made it to the ground, Minho tip toed round to the other side of the bed where Newt's head lay. He bent down and squeezed his shoulder, saying nothing as Newt hastily wiped his face with the back of his hand. He sat up in bed and made space for Minho to sit next to him. The two sat cross-legged on the mattress, Minho leaning in forwards, watching Newt carefully as he sat with his fingers interlocked.

"I shouldn't even feel bad," said Newt, his voice brittle. "I knew I had it all along."

"It's not fair though," said Minho, staring at Newt's hands as his fingers moved along his torso till he'd pulled himself into a tight hug.

Newt snorted. "Since when has anything WICKED's done ever been fair?" he asked, disgust lacing his voice.

Minho did not even need to consider this question; he knew the answer was "never." He shook his head. "I know," he said. The speech he had practised over and over in his head seemed to have vanished. He fought for words but he had no idea what to say any more. He glanced up at Newt. His eyes were wet as tears threatened to spill.

"I know you want to reassure me that everything's going to be okay," said Newt, "But there's no buggin' point. We both know-" he faltered over his words, "We both know-" he tried again, but he did not get any further. He hunched over as he started to cry.

"We both know what?" Minho asked, "That you can't be saved?" He scooted up closer and enveloped Newt in his arms, "That's a load of klunk. Or, I guess as you would say, that's a load of 'buggin' rubbish.'"

He felt Newt's mouth twitch up into a smile but as he hugged Minho back he clenched on tight, his fingers coiling round the material of his friend's shirt. Minho heard him give out a sob.

Newt pushed his head into Minho's chest. "I just want them dead," he said, "After everything they've done to us. After all the false hope they've given us…" His shoulders trembled as he spat out his next words, "They all have to go to hell."

Minho felt the back of his neck prickle. He'd never heard Newt so distressed and the hostility in his voice worried him. The Flare wasn't already getting to him, was it? "We're gonna get you that cure, Newt." Minho said firmly, his own eyes starting to water. "We're gonna fight WICKED, yeah? We're gonna beat them, and we're gonna win. You hear me, Newt?" he asked, squeezing him tighter. He closed his eyes and put as much conviction into his voice as he could, "We're gonna win."

"We have to kill them," Newt choked out, "They have to pay for what they've done to us."

"Good that."

"I just wanna... I just wanna beat them. Y'know? Just once. Beat them at their own game."

"That's what we're gonna do," said Minho, "Tomorrow. 'Somehow, some way', remember? We'll fight them all. I promise you that."

"But what if-" Newt started, "What if it's all a lie? What if there is no cure and WICKED it just playing with us again?"

The constant swaying of Newt's emotions pained Minho. His thoughts drifted back to when Newt threw himself from the wall of the maze and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. Minho cleared his voice and said gently, "Then I'm gonna have to take a few lessons in the sciences, aren't I? Make my own cure for you. Make you better, yeah?"

They said nothing for a while and Minho held onto Newt until his sobs grew silent. When Minho finally let go, Newt rubbed his eyes again before offering Minho a soft smile. "You're not too bad when you're not grouchy, you know."

Minho snorted, "Me? Grouchy? You should take a look at yourself from time to time."

Newt smiled at his words but looked down at his hands, suddenly embarrassed by their talk. "Thanks," he said.

"Hey, no problem," said Minho, patting him on the shoulder, "You know where I am if you ever need me. We've been through some shuck stuff together, and I ain't going nowhere. You know that, right?"

Newt nodded and met Minho's gaze, his eyes suddenly alight and full of fury, "Yeah. And we'll destroy them all, together."

Minho nodded slightly in agreement. A slight tremor had run up his spine. He gazed into Newt's eyes, found no trace of joking. Silence rained through the room and Minho watched his friend's expression change. It was as if someone had flicked a switch: now his eyelids drooped and he stared off into space, sleep finally creeping up on him.

"You're tired, Newt," said Minho as he stood, trying to dismiss Newt's ever-changing moods as a cause of him not having slept properly in the past few weeks, "We should get some rest."

Newt nodded sleepily and tucked himself back into bed. Minho offered his friend what he hoped was a reassuring smile before he climbed back up the ladder and curled up under the covers himself.

"'Night." Newt said softly, all the anger from earlier erased from his voice.

"G'night."

The calmness in Newt's voice soothed his spirits a little, but he worried all the same. Unlike Minho, Newt had always known how to keep calm in desperate situations, but he just wasn't acting like the collected, level-headed person he knew and admired. Again, he remembered Newt's attempt to end it all, how he'd been found crumpled on the floor of the maze, how he hadn't wanted saving. Minho swallowed hard, trying to push the memories out of mind. But despite his worries, the conversation had worn him out, and with these thoughts in mind, he drifted off into a sleep contaminated by troubled dreams and growing suspicions. By the time he woke up, he did not feel like he'd slept at all.

Thanks for reading!