Chapter Text
It wasn’t easy. Minho thought it would be. After all that he’s been through, he thought living in this paradise, this so-called ‘Safe Haven’ they built, would finally rest his restless. But he has never felt so alone. His lovers slept in their cots; eyes closed, breathing steady, bodies still. It was almost eerie if not for the rising and falling of their chests. He wanted to stay there and wait for them to open their eyes and look at him again. Golden and oak brown eyes meeting his dark ones.
They didn’t, and he felt restless. He felt like he should do something. Anything to wake them or keep them safe. Safer than Safe Haven. He wanted to fight the people that left them in this predicament.
But the fight is over. Frypan would tell him. The fight is over. Brenda would tell him. The fight is over. Even Gally would tell him. But the fight in him wasn’t over. He wanted to shout at them. Lash out and tell them they don’t understand. He would’ve. But he could hear Newt in his mind, telling him to stand down. He could hear Thomas tell him it wasn’t their fault. So instead he did what he did best--something familiar.
He ran. His legs felt uneasy. It was weird not feeling the familiar ache in his calves.
He ran. In the early mornings, at night when he can’t sleep. He ran and ran and ran. In his boots, barefoot, the sand beneath his toes, the cold sea brushing his feet. He ran until he felt his lungs would give out and the familiar ache and exhaustion crept up from his legs. He ran until he collapsed as he heaved and caught his breath, feeling the sunrise dance on his skin.
He thought the fatigue would blow out the fight still igniting in his chest. The fight that lit up so fiercely when he was strung up and alone, thrust back and tortured in different situations. They were too stupid if they thought they could stomp and tire him out from all the stressful and traumatic conditions they threw at him. If anything it just made the fire in him angrier and more intense. It’s what kept him alive; all those months waiting for the right time to strike. An opening for him to escape. But of course, Thomas had beat him to it. Before he could find a way out, they'd already carved him a path and led him back to Thomas’ and Newt’s arms again.
Until they slipped between his fingers once more.
A crushing guilt fell down on him when he saw Thomas, tears rolling down his eyes, holding down Newt. Their kind, gentle Newt who was now snapping his teeth at Thomas. His eyes as dark as the evening sky they were under, growling and pleading. Thomas’ trembling hands on a gun pointed under Newt’s chin. It was Newt’s veiny hands holding it in place.
Minho would never forget.
It was burned in his mind.
The pounding and heaving of his chest from the run he just made. His scream as he pushed Thomas off of Newt. The first gunshot. Newt scrambling up and reaching for the gun. Thomas trying to wrestle the loaded gun out of Newt’s grip. The second gunshot. More deafening and close. Then the blood dripped on Newt’s shoulder. Newt collapsing on the ground. Minho grabbed a hold of Newt and tried to apply as much pressure on the wound. The serum in his palms. Thomas, walking away, looking at them with round broken pair of eyes. Minho wanted to call for him. To hold him and put his pieces back together. But Newt was also falling apart in his arms. And in his palms was the serum. He chose to stay. Minho hoped Thomas did too.
He remembered the hopelessness he felt when he saw Thomas atop the burning building. “There!” He had shouted at Jorge at the berg. Urging him to fly faster and go lower. But the buildings exploding, burning, and collapsing made it hard to get closer without harming the berg they were on--Jorge had scolded him. Minho cared more about the fact that Thomas was atop a burning building, and Newt was strapped on a bed in the berg trying to kill himself or make everyone else kill him. The serum worked only to allow them to heal his wound from the gunshot, after that, Newt's veins started blackening and his eyes darkened again.
Watching Newt go through the Changing was harder than watching him be a Crank. Watching Thomas limping on a burning building, half his weight on Teresa, his arms wrapped around his stomach, and Minho can’t do anything but reach out and shout his name, was more painful. He was watching two people that mean the most to him in this godforsaken world they live in slip away from him. And he can’t have that. He won’t allow it. He reached out. Thomas jumped as Teresa heaved him up on the berg. Vince had caught the boy, Minho scrambled to him and quickly dragged him up. He cradled him in his arms. Thomas. He whispered his name. Thomas. But Thomas twisted in his arms, looked down at the girl. She was in tears as she looked back at the burning building then to Thomas. Her eyes were pleading but resolved. It was Thomas’ gut wrenching scream that made Minho realize what she was doing.
They watched her fall, Minho in a voiceless shout as he saw the flames swallow her. Then Thomas whimpered back into his arms, hid his face in Minho’s stomach, and closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and he hasn’t opened them ever since. Minho will always remember.
So, Minho ran. He ran because he wanted to hit something. Because he felt useless and helpless. He ran because he didn't have anything to throw his anger at. He felt the guilt of feeling this way when everyone around him was trying to calm down and heal, trying to put the violence past them. But Minho could still feel it in his veins creeping up in him. He would sometimes wonder if he caught the Flare and he was Cranking. But of course it couldn’t possibly be. He was immune and so were the rest of them. Even his beloved Newt because Mary had administered the serum they found in Thomas’ pocket. The serum that they soon found out was the cure.
Sometimes he woke up screaming from his nightmares, but he wasn’t afraid. No. He’d wake up, his fists clenched and trembling and angry . So angry he sobbed and wanted to throw up. Because he remembered every single thing. What they did to him. What they did to Thomas, to Newt, to Alby, to Chuck, to Clint, to Jeff, to Zart, to Winston, even to Teresa. What WCKD did to all his friends and family. All lives lost. He wanted to throw his clenched fists on something. He did. To a tree, till his knuckles bruised. Until Gally found him and dragged him to the med hut. Demanded him to stay still and let the doctors do their work. Then dragged him back outside and gave his clenched fists a hammer. Minho was confused at first at what Gally wanted him to do. But once a Builder always a Builder, as Gally gestured at the others hammering and sawing wood--making buildings and shacks and cottages, trying to make the Safe Haven their home. Minho busied himself then. He was grateful for it. He was grateful for Gally. He felt like he had something to do again. He felt less useless. He woke up with a routine, hammered away as hard as he could, and slept, tired and exhausted from the day's work.
Minho still ran. He wakes up early to run before the sunrise catches his skin.
And Minho ran when he saw Thomas walking around the Safe Haven; mouth agape, eyes roving over everything and everyone. He ran and hugged him. Tightly. Finally. Minho breathed in the boy— the man— in his arms. And Thomas squeezed back as tightly. Both clutching each other, giving back every moment they weren’t in each other’s embrace. All the moments they missed because of the wicked happenstance they ended up— ripped apart from each other’s grasps for too long.
“Minho,” It was a broken sob from Thomas, and Minho leaned forward, their foreheads pressed together. Another sob broke free from Thomas but this time Minho swallowed it--warm lips meeting broken and wounded. His arms snaked around Thomas’ waist and they stood like that for a moment. Forgetting everyone around them. Forgetting that they were quite literally in the middle of the Safe Haven. Until Jorge cleared his throat and Brenda let out a teasing whistle. Soon, Thomas was swarmed by their other friends--family, more like. Minho was hesitant when he let him go, but he stayed near him, following him like a dog.
Like hell would he ever be separated from him ever again.
“Newt?” Thomas asked that evening. Minho knew Thomas had wanted to ask that for the entirety of the day. He also felt the fear, and the grief, emanating from the boy as he cuddled closer to Minho’s chest.
“He’s alive.” Minho whispered in the darkness of the night.
Thomas jerked his head up, elbows pushing himself above Minho. The lack of light made it hard to see Thomas’ features, but Minho could very well make out the brown eyes, wide and watery.
“He’s alive?” Thomas repeated. He sounded so wounded. Minho tightened his grip on Thomas’ waist.
“You cured him, Thomas.”
Thomas’ hand flew to his pockets, feeling it, “The serum.”
“Mary gave it to him, not before she examined it.”
“It was from my blood.”
“You cured Newt.”
“Teresa… she…” Thomas buried his face in the crook of Minho’s neck, “She was right. She was right.” Thomas sobbed again and Minho held him tight. He held him tight and let him cry on his neck, drawing comforting patterns on his back.
It wasn’t long that Thomas joined Minho’s routine. It wasn’t long that Minho made Thomas smile again. And it was all starting to fall back in place. Until the space left for the third part of them felt more and more empty.
Thomas sobbed at night and Minho screamed at sunrise. They held each other everyday.
So, Minho ran. But he wasn’t alone anymore. Thomas had joined him. Both running till they collapse, sunrise dancing on their skin. The silence is comfortable but loud.
Minho ran when Gally had called for him. Newt was awake. Finally. He ran to the med hut, Thomas already there. The golden eyes looked at him, bleary but open and alive. Alive. Minho was right by their side in an instant. He brushed the blonde fringe away from Newt’s forehead and his eyes fluttered from the gesture. Minho didn’t think he could do something so gentle. After all his anger, he didn’t think he was allowed to be gentle. Toughness was what he knew all his life. It was what he lived by. He cupped Newt’s cheek and caressed it with his thumb. He took Thomas’ hand in his and entwined them. There in the med hut with Thomas and Newt, he allowed himself to be gentle and tender. To make the strong walls he had built around himself all his life crumble down. He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Newt’s dry lips.
“Hey, shuckface,” came Newt’s hoarse voice.
“Slinthead.” Minho said back.
Newt smiled weakly. He felt Thomas’ thumb rub patterns on his hand. Minho’s heart swelled in his chest. Finally.
At first it was difficult to wake up in between Thomas and Newt in the hut they shared. It was difficult because he didn’t know how real it was. He would grip them and they would start to stir from the pain but he couldn’t let them go. Not again. Until Newt will kiss him and Thomas will grip his hand as tightly as he was.
“Is this real?” Minho would whisper, a tear down his cheek. Newt wiped it away.
“We’re here.” Thomas said.
“We’re real. We’re safe.” Newt answered him.
But somehow it wasn’t enough. He felt like he was being tricked again. His guard went up and his tears fell relentlessly. Then Newt and Thomas would start their mantra. A prayer. A song.
“You like the color blue.” Newt began.
“Your favorite food is Frypan’s onion soup.” Thomas continued, Minho heard the smile on his lips.
“You’re strong and resilient. You like to run like you're racing with the sunrise.” Kisses trailed his neck, down his chest.
“You like to be kissed on your temples. You like it when we touch the mole right above your belly button.” A gentle scrape on the spot sent goosebumps through his body.
Each statement they gave was followed by kisses and touches. And that was all it took for Minho to come undone, under soft lips and rough calloused hands. This was real. He repeats in his head. This was real and they were there and they were real.
It wasn’t easy. But Minho knew they were going to make it work. At night, they were plagued by nightmares. They held onto each other like a lifeline; kisses and comfort against their pillows and under the sheets. Minho held them by his side tightly, careful of their wounds but still firm. Scared that if he loosened his hold they would slip away again. Thomas still sobbed. Newt sometimes drifts away. His eyes empty and his voice refusing to come out. But Minho, tough as nails he would call himself, stood by them. Embraced Thomas and cocooned him from the cruel world he didn’t deserve to be born into. He stayed by Newt’s side, his presence and weight grounding the blonde boy. It wasn’t going to be easy but Minho will make it his life mission to make it easier for the two men.
He kissed them, made love with them, and he realized he was tired of fighting. The anger in him calmed like a big wave washing out the shore and going back to the sea. Thomas’ smile, Newt’s laughter; he bathed in them. He would drown in them if he could.
“I love you.” Minho whispered to them. They whispered back. Minho felt himself healing. It was slow but he felt it. He felt the fire in him burn low. It was still there but it wasn’t as fierce as before. He let himself heal under Newt’s and Thomas’ caresses. They cupped the fire in him, contained it in their palms, not blowing it out but not letting it become a bonfire. It was there and it was steady. Minho let himself heal and thought this would become easier.
The sun rose and he stayed in bed between the two men he loved. He let his legs rest, tangling it with theirs. It was easier.