The fire crackled outside. It made everything almost seem normal.
Gally rolled in his hammock, turning towards the Homestead's thin wall, spying the flickering flames between the cracks. The other Gladers were staring listlessly at the fire, save Newt who hadn't stopped moving since he dropped Gally in a hammock and sprinted away when the screaming abruptly stopped. Newt, whether it was through impractical hope or sick fear, had to investigate. But Gally knew. As soon as the scream cut off Gally knew. George was dead.
And Gally killed him.
He sobbed until his throat was raw.
The other Gladers came back at an unspecified time, but no one entered the Homestead. Gally was grateful for the small miracle. He had no idea how he would react to the other Gladers at the moment. He would either break down in tears—again—or attack them. And he wasn't sure if this situation exempted him from the second rule. He felt hollow, fragile. The last time he felt even remotely vulnerable, George had been the only one—
Gally sucked in a breath, pain stabbing through his chest.
The shucking rules. Why hadn't he followed the shucking rules? There are only three of them. Not that hard to remember, Newt's voice reminded him mockingly.
He just had to go into the Maze, didn't he? Force—guilt—George into showing him. George was reluctant. And for a good shucking reason. They didn't understand the shucking Maze. Not even Minho and Newt, and they went into the Maze the most out of all of them. Anything could shucking happen. It was dangerous, unpredictable, deadly.
"I can't bloody believe you," Newt muttered. Gally gnawed his lip. He had no idea who Newt was directing that to. He swallowed his rising guilt. They wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for him. George would be giggling by the fire, mock-gagging over Nick's cooking if it weren't for him. A bitter taste invaded his mouth. They should have shucking finished the hut and then ate, as planned.
"We had to," Nick murmured.
"You did not bloody have to."
"You weren't there—" Alby started. Gally closed his eyes. No, they weren't there. And he was the confusing mixture of grateful and furious. Newt was just the latter.
"Exactly!" Newt yelled. "I wasn't there. I was sent away. So quit acting bloody self-righteous. I shucking wanted you guys to wait because we didn't know how the Griever sting affected Georgie, but no. You couldn't have someone disagree so you sent me away. Like a bloody dog. What gave you the right to decide something like that? Who bloody died and made you leader?"
"I didn't..." Nick began hesitantly.
"Don't play innocent," Newt spat. "Because I didn't agree with your bloody decision you sent me away with the greenie. Kill two birds with one stone, right? The two Gladers who would shucking protest murdering George immediately just had to—"
"We didn't shucking murder George," Alby snapped. Gally blinked. Alby rarely raised his voice.
"Shucking looks like it from over here," Newt retorted.
"He was insane and dangerous," Nick insisted. "You know what he did to your face."
"I'm aware," Newt drawled. "A few cuts. Big bloody deal. I'll survive and live another shucking day. Georgie won't."
"He was dying. We completely ignored his stomach wound. I'm not a shucking medic, but those are hard to come back from even if the person isn't trying to harm everyone, including himself," Alby faltered, fight leaving his stance. "W-we put him out of his misery."
"That doesn't give you the right to decide that without me. I wasn't even aware that option was in serious consideration," Newt hissed.
"It's not like we were planning it," Alby protested.
Newt scoffed.
"We weren't," Nick insisted.
"Really?" Newt said. "You want me to believe that as soon as I left you didn't instantly start discussing how to deal with Georgie."
"Of course we did," Nick snapped. "It was kind of a big deal. Time was of the essence. We weren't just going to twiddle our thumbs until you got back while we watched George suffer."
"Get off your bloody high horse. I don't care that you were discussing Georgie. I would have shucking talked about Georgie. I bloody care that you decided to kill him before telling me! Or the shucking greenie." Gally snorted. He was clearly an afterthought. He and Newt might be on the same boat, currently, but he knew the other Glader still blamed him for George. Shuck, Gally blamed himself for that. Gally leaned his head against his hammock, refusing to let his eyes drift to George's adjacent hammock. The ginger always snored. He swallowed thickly. "Why should we all have equal say in here?"
"What? You wanted us to put it to a shucking vote?" Minho interrupted, glancing up from the fire for the first time. "What do you think would have changed, Newt? You wouldn't have saved George. Do you think you're the only one that wants George alive? You're not."
The fire cackled. Gally squinted but the other Gladers' expressions were obscured by shadows.
"I know I'm bloody not," Newt muttered after a beat.
Minho snorted. "You have a shucked up way of showing it. Stop acting like a shank."
"I'm sorry," Newt spat, "that I'm so bloody affected by Georgie's death. Should I act more like you?"
"What the shuck is that supposed to mean?"
"'Indifferent' sums it up quite nicely."
Gally jumped as the Homestead wall shuddered under a sudden slam. Alby was half-heartedly calling for Minho to put Newt down.
"Nobody wanted George to die, Newt," Minho snarled. "Why is that so hard for you to wrap your shucking head around?"
"Probably because he's dead," Newt said softly. "I was gone for five minutes and I came back to George's corpse. What am I supposed to think?"
"You weren't there," Minho hissed. "You have no idea what—"
"What?" Newt interrupted. "What didn't I know? I was gone for five bloody minutes. What could possibly happen in five minutes that completely changed everything?"
"It's not my fault you refuse to face the facts. You think time would heal George? You would've killed him. He was dying from his stomach wound. George was dying and you were too thick to see it. Let's say his mad-spell did vanish. He still wouldn't have enough blood to function."
"You don't know that—"
"Neither do you."
"Tell me one thing then, Minho," Newt interjected bitterly. "What specifically inspired the decision to kill George? What did he do? What was the straw that broke the camel's back?"
"He wasn't getting better," Minho stated.
"Do you think if you say that enough, it'll come true?"
A thud resounded through the wall. Newt swore and instantly jerked away from the wall, the flames burning a bright yellow, illuminating the furious boys. Minho grunted as Newt tackled him to the hard ground. The other Gladers cursed as Minho and Newt changed into a flurry of limbs, punches and kicks finding a target in the chaos. Gally smirked when he heard someone—Newt?—cry out after a particularly loud crunch.
"Stop fighting," Alby grunted. Gally squinted, watching Alby and Nick pry the wrestling boys off each other. "We still have shucking rules."
"Do we?" Newt spat.
"Shuck off," Minho snapped, glaring at Newt.
"Yes," Alby said firmly, "never hurt another Glader."
"So that rule is relevant now?" Newt drawled.
"That was different," Alby said furiously.
"How?"
"We've shucking been through this," Minho said.
"Sorry for not wrapping my head around it in a timely manner," Newt retorted, shaking off Nick's arms. "Just shuck everything. Shuck you."
"Where are you going?" Nick called to Newt's retreating form.
"Why do you bloody care?"
A log in the fire collapsed, burning ashes bursting from the fire pit.
"Shuck," Nick swore.
"What? Didn't expect backlash?" Minho leered.
"Slim it, slinthead," Nick retorted. "Your opinions are not necessary."
"Do I shucking look like I care what you think?"
"You going to yell at me about George too?"
Minho snorted. "Quit acting like such a shucking martyr. You weren't the only one attacked tonight. You weren't the only one there when we killed George."
Nick flinched, glaring furiously at Minho. "Sorry I didn't shucking suf—"
"Just shucking shut it," Minho snapped. "I'm not dealing with your self-righteous klunk, especially not tonight."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Take a shucking wild guess."
"I'm not going to let you think that—"
"Get over yourself," Minho interrupted, pushing past Nick. He faltered mid-trek towards the forest. He glanced back at the fire. "Don't talk to me at the funeral tomorrow."
"What shucking made him so pissy?" Nick muttered, glaring at the spot Minho vanished.
Alby poked the neglected fire absently. "Gee, I wonder."
"Slim it."
"What did you expect from such a stupid question? George is dead. We killed him."
Nick mumbled something under his breath. Gally watched as Alby stiffened in the low light. He rose slowly, looming over Nick.
"Repeat that, shank?"
Nick stood, using his few inch advantage to leer over Alby. "Not plural, singular. You."
"We all killed George, shuckface," Alby snarled. "The fact you didn't hold the spear, doesn't make you any less guilty. The blood is on your hands too."
"Geor—"
Nick's response was cut off by a sudden movement. He sucked in a wavering breath. Gally's eyes widened. Alby was choking Nick. With one hand. The dark-skinned boy brought Nick's face inches from his own.
"You and Minho shucking wanted to leave him tied to a shucking tree and make him bleed to death," Alby said leisurely. "So yes, I speared George. I speared him because I didn't want him to suffer. I have something called shucking compassion. You should try it sometime."
Nick collapsed next to the fire when Alby released him, wheezing as a disgusted Alby stalked away. Gally stared at the lone Glader before turning to study the ceiling.
Shuck.
Tomorrow was going to be fun.
Gally swallowed. Alby speared George because of him.
George's laughter would no longer echo throughout the Glade because of him.
Gally should feel sick or sad or angry or something. Instead, he felt hollow. Guilty and hollow. He knew George was dead. He knew his friend would never kick him out of bed in an effort to wake him up because "morning Gally scared him." Or pester him to prank Alby. Or distract from work. Or hinder more than help a project. Or ramble about the importance of hygiene. He knew that. He shucking saw George's corpse—before retching the remnants of lunch. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the ginger would waltz through the Homestead doors with his contagious grin firmly in place and scolding Gally for being antisocial.
Gally twisted his lips. He should be sobbing. Again. He should be doing something. George was his only friend in this hellhole and Gally couldn't shucking do more than an extended sobfest. He took George's life with a rash decision and couldn't give George a single shucking thing. All Gally accomplished was furthering the tension among all the Gladers.
And George hated strife in the Glade.
George just wanted everyone to work together and be happy. He didn't want much. He never asked for much.
Stop being difficult and hug me, shank.
Gally cringed at the abrupt memory before blinking rapidly.
The shucking last thing George asked. And Gally had to be a shank and say no. George loved physical contact.
And Gally denied him before George sacrificed himself to the Griever.
The blond pressed his fists in his eyes, trying to prevent hot tears from streaming down his face. Apparently George was getting another breakdown. And, of course, tears made everything better. Gally was disgusted with himself. He was so shucking useless.
He should have never gone in the Maze.
They had three shucking rules. Three. They were shucking common sense. And yet...
Stop being difficult and hug me, shank.
Gally fell into a fitful sleep, George's voice and laughter echoing in his head.
There were three shucking rules. They were made for a reason.
Stop being difficult and hug me, shank.
~O~
Minho eyed the confused greenie. The dark-skinned boy's eyes kept flickering around the group. He was handling everything quite well in all honesty, especially considering Nick dumped the greenie on an irritable Gally. Course, who wasn't shucking on a short fuse today?
Minho left the half-built running hut a few hours before noon. Newt was slaving over the gardens, ignoring Minho and the world at large. Alby was repairing the Homestead roof, whether the roof needed to be repaired on not was debatable. Nick was somewhere. Minho didn't shucking care where.
Everyone was avoiding everyone. Everyone needed shucking time alone. Minho didn't know if he wanted to lash out or be comforted. He settled for being pissed off and miserable. It was working out for him.
Until the bell echoed throughout the Glade.
The Gladers looked up in unison. Right. The Box. And a new Glader. What fan-shucking-tastic timing.
Minho watched as Nick appeared, dragging a cross Gally towards the Box. Newt froze before throwing a weed behind him as he stood to help unload the Box. Alby hesitated and then followed suit, his careless jump off the roof making Minho forcibly swallow his yell. Shuck, Minho wasn't dealing with this. Things were too tense to be normal. He didn't want to deal with people. Sparing a glance at Newt, who frowned at him with bruised eyes and a scratched face, Minho turned towards the forest. George's funeral was today. He had no idea how they were doing it. No one did.
But Minho knew there was something he needed. Something George would want. So to the forest. Minho still needed to put the final touches on it.
By the time Minho forced himself to George's grave, which was unanimously decided would be in the small forest near the East Door, a dirt-covered Newt and Alby were leaning against some nearby trees, two shovels pitted in the fresh dirt pile. Minho eyed the large piece of canvas nearby. He forced himself to ignore the limp hand peeking out of the white fabric. George...
Newt's gaze flickered towards the wrapped object in Minho's hand, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Minho didn't answer.
The awkward silence continued to stretch by George's grave.
George would be appalled.
Alby opened his mouth a few times but could never seem to find the words. Minho and Newt remained unhelpfully silent, everyone avoiding eye contact.
Crunching grass announced the rest of the Glader's approach. Minho met Nick's gaze fleetingly before looking over Gally and the new greenie. The greenie was confused and angry. Of course, that seems to be the general reaction when one enters the Glade. Plus his welcome was klunk. The greenie looked at Minho with interest. He belatedly realized that this was their first time meeting. He couldn't bring himself to do more than stare disinterestedly and shift his gaze back to George's canvas-covered body.
The silence was overwhelming.
Nick coughed. "So, we're here—"
"Slim it," Minho interrupted. Nick's voice was jarring. Jarring and awkward. It felt forced. Minho didn't like it. "You're not shucking talking."
"What the shuck makes you think that you can—"
"Just stop," Newt said tiredly. Nick slowly closed his mouth at Newt's defeated expression. "We're not bloody fighting. Not tonight. For Georgie's sake..."
Minho felt blood rush to his face. What the shuck is the matter with him? George wouldn't want this. To be fair, George wouldn't want to be dead either but that was already royally shucked up.
He shut his eyes. He wouldn't cry. Not again.
Alby cleared his throat awkwardly. "George was great. His was the third Glader to leave the Box and the first of us to make us work like a team. He broke down all our barriers. He genuinely cared about everyone. I-it was really great. He kept up moral. Whenever I felt down, George always seemed to know and he'd go out of his way to make me feel hope again. George just...never stopped believing, not in us, not in our eventual escape, not in anything. He was constantly optimistic. He w-will be missed—is missed. And we gather here to bury the first Glader who fell, the strongest Glader of us all—George."
Minho didn't stare when Alby's tears began to trickle down his face near the beginning of his speech because that would draw attention to his own wet eyes. Someone sniffed. A quick glance confirmed everyone was teary-eyed. Except the greenie, who solemnly stared down at the ground as if to give them privacy.
"Guys?" Newt murmured, nodding towards George's corpse. They wordlessly nodded and Alby, Minho, Nick, and Gally helped Newt gently lower George's body into the crude hole. Nick removed the canvas. The greenie's gasp went ignored. George's face was wrangled into a wild, leering grin. Blood still splattered his body and foam had long since dried and flacked on his chin. His shirt was pasted to his chest, the light blue material stained dark brown and maroon. George's eyes were glassy as they dully reflected the sky. He looked nothing like himself. Minho grimaced as Newt carefully reached out and shut George's eyes.
Nick nudged Gally. "Would you like to do the honors?"
Gally's tense, teary face relaxed a fraction as he took the shovel from Nick's extended hand. Newt pursed his lips before grabbing the other shovel and handing it to Alby.
"I—I have something," Minho said. The Gladers froze. "For George. Just...he would want it."
Minho didn't realize he froze until Alby nodded at him. Minho felt his feet move, his shoulders stiff as stares bore into his back. He slouched down, kneeling next to George.
"You deserve so much more," he whispered, but his voice carried in the silent Glade. "But I'm glad you're finally free from this hellhole. Even though it's not in the way anybody wanted." He gentled put a smooth piece of wood in George's hand, grimacing at George's cold, heavy limbs. The thin block of wood was adorned with 'George: Glade's Best PC, From Box To Always.' Minho refused to meet anyone's eyes. He ran a hand through his hair as he stood up. "No one can replace you."
Gally wordless shoveled the first pile of dirt of George. Alby and Gally were silent as they filled up George's grave. Minho watched as George's twisted face slowly disappeared under the scattering dirt. He should look away. He didn't want to remember George this way. He wanted to remember the teasing, the listening, the ramblings, the sleepy mumbles. But Minho had to watch. George was a memory. A devastating memory. And Minho wouldn't forget a single detail.
He didn't realize he was shaking until a hand enveloped his.
Minho jerked up and stared at Newt. Newt refused to meet his gaze. He studied the other Glader. The etched red marks vivid across his face, black blooming under his eyes, nose swollen—he looked like he went through a shucking warzone. Or a really klunk night. The Glade has been a shucking mess. He didn't know how they were going to get back to normal. Or if they ever would. Minho gently ran his thumb over Newt's knuckles. Newt's face softened. The paler boy squeezed Minho's hand before letting go. Minho crossed his arms, refusing to think about Newt's phantom hand wrapped around his.
Alby passed Nick his shovel. The dark-skinned Glader reached under a tree and grabbed a piece of wood with "George" crudely carved on it. He hammered the post at the head of George's grave, his sign tilting slightly in the dirt.
"You will be missed," Alby murmured.
"To the first Glader who fell," Nick said. "You will always live on in our memories."
"The best Glader," Minho mumbled.
"My friend," Gally said.
Newt stared at George's grave. "Bye, Georgie."
The Gladers turned from George, leaving behind his body, walking towards the Homestead. They were going to move past this pain. Eventually the throbbing wound will turn into a dull ache. Hopefully.
Minho glanced back. George's tilted sign cast a shadow over the fresh dirt. The wind trickled through the Glade, chiming against some hanging tools.
His chest ached.
He forced himself to move forward.
Good-bye, George. Wish you were here.