tough guy ✔️ | the scorch trial minho

08

"I DON'T THINK they were lying, France."

Reggie leaned his side on the wall expectantly as he watched Frankie washing the residue of her feelings away (read: her face).

"I can see it on their faces," he continued, "That, or they were excellent liars, all of them."

"They're not," Frankie replied.

"Then it's settled. We're screwed," Reggie joked, "We're totally screwed by that damn WICKED."

"All over again."

"Yes, again. They will demand answers from us, soon. Especially that hot headed boyfriend of yours. How did you find the time to score a boy, by the way? Aren't you a part of the Leaders, or whatever name you got in your Maze—"

"Councils."

"Yes, that."

"It just... happened."

"Well, do you still feel for him? Now? Because I need to know where to stand. You know, if you really expected him to hug you back then, I would feel like total jerk."

Frankie felt... empty.

She tried probing around her feeling, but truthfully, she felt numb. Two and a half year of her earliest memories felt like nothing but a fleeting, sweet dream. She figured that everything; the love, the laughter and the warmth of a big family had gone down the drain the moment she found out that she was completely betrayed.

That all his promises were lies.

But tilting her head and capturing the way he frowned, he talked, he slapped the back of Newt's head, everything started coming back to her.

Perhaps her saying that she had no time to think of anything else other than surviving was just a pathetic excuse.

Was this the true meaning of love? Unable to truly hate someone despite their horrendous deeds? Feeling suffocated and torn between wanting to run into their arms or kill them right there and then?

The confusion was too overwhelming, she had to look away.

Frankie sighed, "I don't know."

〰️

"LOOK, WE KNOW how she is. She's a buggin' slinthead. She keeps her feeling to herself and doesn't let people into her problems that easily, even you and me. She'll open up when she's finally up to it. Don't you remember that time you told everyone that she cried and she didn't talk to you—"

"For a week, of course I remember," Minho looked down into his hands, "But she's my best friend."

"Whoa. She's my best friend."

"Newt."

"We can share her."

To that, Minho shot him a disapproving look and a painful slap.

"Minho, it's only been one bloody day. We met her this morning. You still have six more days to break your record."

"You suck at consoling someone, Newt."

"Slim it. You're also bloody jacked in the head."

"Aren't you frustrated? Our friend who shucking died and we buried suddenly comes back alive and hates our guts like her life depends on it."

Newt chuckled dryly, "I'm crazy inside. I would to go up there and apologize but I don't even know what I'm apologizing for. So, no."

That's it. Minho's eyes lit up, "Let's do that. Apologize."

Newt frowned. He head to look up with a squint of disbelief, since Minho had proceeded to stand and the reddish complexion of sunset seen through the broken glass behind him had turned Minho into a silhouette form. "That's exactly what I just said I wouldn't do."

"Come on," Minho urged, "You know her, that emotional slinthead. If we say sorry like we totally mean it, she will definitely feel bad and end up giving us her good graces once again."

"That's..." Newt faltered, "Mean, a bad idea, but worth a try."

"You should stop, hermano."

Jorge suddenly appeared, planting one of his worn out brown boots on the boulder by their side, and retied its shoelaces.

"Give her time. She's been through a lot —a whole lot more than you."

Minho opened his mouth to retort back (one, because he had been through a lot himself and two, who was he to join in a personal conversation?), but Jorge cut in again, "I'm not saying you should stop forever. I'm saying, you stop pestering her for answers, be a nice boyfriend that I'm sure you are not, and ask again subtly in a few days."

Perhaps it was the sad creases on the old man's forehead or the melancholic tone that went along with the sentence. Somehow, Minho knew he meant good. But his ego couldn't handle being corrected and insulted at the same time (he was a very, very nice boyfriend, thank you very much), so he stayed silent.

"So, do you know what happened to her? And why she hates us so much? Who's Reggie?" Newt asked.

Jorge finished tightening his shoe laces and sat on the boulder, facing the blonde boy. He shrugged, "Of course. I interrogated anyone who comes into my house without an invitation."

"Anything you can give us? Sit back down, Minho," Newt grumbled, tugging on the Asian boy's folded arms and forcing him to settled down on his left.

"How can I profit?"

"Seriously?" Minho snapped, "We're asking about our friend in concern and you turn this into a business transaction?"

Jorge laughed, "Of course! Information is the most expensive trade, hermano."

"She's not someone you can sell, old man."

Jorge leaned back with a knowing smirk on his face, "Kidding! Kidding! Well, they're a package— Frances and Reggie."

Newt and Minho exchanged looks. Both recalled how much she hated the name Frances in the Maze and how crazy she would acted if somebody insisted on calling her that.

"Two of them stumbled into our place almost like you, about three months ago. She was heavily bleeding and that guy," Jorge pointed towards Reggie, who was laying on the tiled floor, watching the sunset with Frankie about thirty feet away, "He begged us to save her and let them stay. He said they were thrown out into the Scorch by WICKED and had been walking around aimlessly for more than a week."

"Heavily bleeding?" Newt inquired.

"I guess she had had enough of the heat and killing inhumane creatures along the way. She tried to shoot herself. I saved her."