nostalgia ✔️ | tough series bonus

↳ 2.3

AFTER TAKING A long shower, Minho decided to stay up with Jeff and keep an eye on Newt's progress. Nick wanted to address the matter formally and urgently in the morning, so a day-off was issued and he could take a nap after the Gathering tomorrow.

The night started off rough, but instead of getting better, things took a worse turn at dawn. Newt became feverish in his sleep. His body temperature spiked, but his palms were terrifyingly cold, even under three layers of blankets.

"Minho, can you grab some extra blankets?" Jeff asked in a low whisper as he kept on nursing the patient's wounds.

"Sure," Minho paused to think for a second, "Frankie got 'em in her closet, right?"

"Yeah, I think so. But she's probably asleep right now —it's two in the morning."

"I'll just tiptoe real quiet then."

Minho made his way towards the room at the end of the corridor and placed both of his palms on the door. He pushed it open as slowly and quietly as possible... and a strange, unfamiliar sound entered his ears.

Under the dim lighting, he could see that her bed was empty.

Minho pushed the door slightly more ajar. He stepped in and looked around...

It felt like his heart stopped for a second in extreme surprise when his eyes caught sight of a lump... or was it someone, curled up in a ball, knees pressed against their chest, heads down?

Minho had to take another few steps closer plus a better look at their long hair and the unique tear on their sleeve to realize that, holy shucking shuck, it was Frankie.

Frankie.

It was Frankie, the unmatched queen, the superhuman, and the sound... it was hiccups and sobs, clashing onto each other like a foreign cry of a wounded animal.

Minho just stood there, drinking in the sight.

Frankie. Cried.

Frankie never cried.

And that was all he could think of, because up to that exact second, Frankie was nothing more than a good friend. He was standing at the brim between the world he lived in before, where Frankie was always dependable and always fine, and an uncharted territory, where she was... human. And Minho was scared to take another step.

Finally, he said, "Frankie?"

The girl straightened her back in alarm.

"Minho," she gasped, wiping her tears with her sleeves, "Shuck. You good? Need anything?"

And at that moment, he felt guilt. As someone who called himself her good friend for nearly three whole years, he was ashamed.

"Minho?"

—wasn't going to repeat the same mistake that ended with Newt lying helplessly in the next room. The Keeper of Runners abandoned his quest for extra blanket and sat next to her on the floor.

"Hey, Frank," he finally asked, sincerely, for the first time ever, "You good?"

Frankie, despite having tear streaks on her cheeks and a bright red nose, answered almost immediately, "Fine."

"I hate that word," he pointed out, "You know, Newt? Whenever I ask that shank 'how's the run' or 'how's your day', he always said fine."

Frankie stayed silent and for a few, long, awkward seconds, they just sat side by side on the cold floor. No one knew the right word to say or the right way to act. They never had a heartfelt conversation like this before. It was more of Nick's forte.

"Look, slinthead, if you want to cry, cry. I'm crying internally for Newt, too," Minho blurt out. He paused, but he didn't pause long enough for Frankie to interject with anything, "You're a lot like him, you know that? Worse, actually. Stephen told me about the stunts you pull at the Cliff, and you always come back here—"

"I came back ten minutes early today," Frankie cut in.

"Just... don't be like him. I don't want to lose another friend," His words hung meaningfully in the air. "Let me in, Frank. I want to help. Not just me— everyone does. But if your shuck big ego won't let you do that, you can at least cry in front of me. Just me."

"I'm not crying," Frankie muttered defensively in a tone that usually marked the beginning of their daily quarrel.

"Oh, shut up."

In a swift motion, Minho circled his arm around her neck and pulled her head until she had her temple glued to his shoulder. He could feel her rebelling against his hold (read: gentle headlock). "Min—"

"Sssh," he hissed. He kept his grip on her temple firm so she couldn't lift her head off of his shoulder no matter how hard she tried.

"Minho..." she faltered.

"I get it. He's one of my best friends, too."

Silent seconds passed, and Minho felt her struggle ceasing slowly but surely. He felt her rolling her head until her face was obscured from view by her unkempt hair, and she trembled.

Sobs of sadness and guilt wrecked her entire body. Unconsciously, Minho let his eyes watered, his nose sniffled, and his hands stroke her hair rhythmically in a soothing manner. That night, two a.m. in the Glade, in the room at the end of the Homestead's second floor corridor, faint sound of heartfelt cries echoed like a suppressed shout for help.

That night, the Keeper of Runners was just a boy, and the Goddess of the Glade was just a girl.

〰️

〰️

JEFF CRANED HIS neck to take another look at the deserted corridor. He huffed, "Where the shuck is Minho? Did he fall asleep in Frankie's room or somethin'?"

〰️

IT'S OKAY. NEWT ended up getting his extra blankets, about one and a half hour later.

He survived the incident, the Maze, the Scorch, the Third Trial, the Crank Palace, the Right Arm, W.I.C.K.E.D., and he was now a valuable member in the Paradise.

— end of part II —