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I
0:14, Toronto, ON, a world much like ours “Have we met?” They’re sprawled out on the cool concrete, staring up at the stars. Well, Newt is, anyway—Minho is staring down at him instead, his head propped against the low wall that borders the roof of the bar. There’s a crooked brick digging into the back of his head. Newt’s hair fans out against the concrete like a halo, his profile illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the yellow moon. Gally tossed him the keys a few minutes ago, waving them up the steps in the back of the building with a sigh. It’s Minho’s favourite place in the city, far enough from the centre that a few constellations poke holes through the thick shroud of light pollution, but close enough that the roads spread out before him in glittering web. Breathing comes easier, here where the roof is littered with reminders (scratched up stickers on the chimney stack, a cluster of names scrawled in sharpie around the door).Minho might be a little drunk. He might also be a little in love, but he thinks (hopes) that’s the alcohol talking.It takes him a moment to realise that Newt asked him a question. “‘Bout twenty minutes ago,” he replies, remembering bright eyes and a pair of strong hands leading him around the dance floor.Newt shakes his head, and Minho watches the light shift across his features. He’s got his face all scrunched up, visibly struggling to hold onto an especially slippery train of thought. “No—no, before. Before that.”“Nah.” Cars streaking by on the road below, music pulsing through the roof of the bar, the smell of sweat and ash and synthetic cherry lip balm. Minho feels his smirk go a little wobbly, a little off-balance, heart kicking happily in his chest. “Think I’d remember—think I’d remember a face like yours.”It’s meant to be flirty, cocksure, but he misses the mark by a mile. Through the haze of alcohol and dizzy exhilaration, Minho is horrified to hear that he sounds earnest. Hopeful. Sweet.He scowls at himself—at least, he thinks he does. He’s not entirely sure what his face is doing right now, but Newt’s eyes start to crinkle around the edges, and Minho’s attempt at dismay crumples to make way for a stupid, stupid smile.Newt’s turn to smirk, the bastard, tugging at his collar. “S’like I know you.”“Yeah?” “Mm. I… feel you.” He raps his fingers over his sternum, “Here,” then brings them up to his forehead, “here,” blinking rapidly as he does. A furrow forms between his brows, an expression of surprise beset by something unreadable. “Aw,” Minho manages. “Shut up.”“Nah.” And, aha, there’s his signature grin—confident, smug, a little lopsided. Take that, alcohol. Take that, feelings. Take that, stupid, soppy smile. Newt rolls his eyes and turns onto his side, grabbing a fistful of Minho’s shirt and hauling him over so they’re nose to nose, knees knocking together. His hand lingers, grip loosening just enough that he can hook two fingers between the buttons.Minho’s breath catches. He can see the scar on Newt’s cheek, close enough to touch. “Why’d you do that?” Another smirk, softer. “Wanted to.”He swallows. “I like this better.”“Me too.”“So much better.”Newt whispers, “Minho.”The air slides slow and sweet across their skin. And it’s funny, he can’t remember telling Newt his name. Can’t remember hearing Newt’s either, but he was on his third glass of Special Brew by the time Newt came stumbling off the dance floor and into his life. He’ll remember this, though, drunk or not. Newt’s breath fans across Minho’s mouth, beer and artificial cherry.Yeah, he’ll remember this.
II
Somewhere, sometime In a different life, on a different world, a different boy shields his eyes against the blinding light above him. A second boy stares down at him—twiggy, tall, with sandy blond hair and a frown creasing his forehead. He jolts, thinking, you, then, what? His heart crashes in his chest. Through the roaring of blood in his ears and the dread twisting low in his gut, he feels something wild and unnamed snap through him. (Not so different after all.)A third boy runs up behind the second, a little older, a little more tired. Winded, he claps his companion on the shoulder and squints down at the newcomer.It is a life without memory, a life without justice. And it starts, in some ways, with a rueful smirk and a hand stretched down into the darkness of a box, an accented voice saying, “Welcome to the Glade.”
III
Six or seven years earlier In reality, it starts in a cold, sterile classroom with buzzing overhead lights and windowless walls. A straight-backed woman glides up and down the rows, shark-like, peering down her nose at the occasional unsuspecting student. The badge over her pocket reads W.C.K.D. - Teaching Department. Her heels hit the floor with an even click, click, click. As she passes the third row, her eyes land on a head of sandy blond hair bowed over a worksheet, a child’s face scrunched up in concentration. She pauses. Frowns, an oddly pitying look, and resumes her pacing.
Click, click, click.
The sandy-haired boy pulls a face at her retreating back. Next to him, another boy muffles a snort against his fist. Raising his eyebrows, he glances at his neighbour, then hooks both fingers on either side of his mouth and pulls, going cross-eyed as he sticks his tongue out as far as it’ll go. He barely manages to school his expression into one of studious innocence when the teacher turns with narrowed eyes, but it’s worth it for the glee that flashes across the blond boy’s face.Later, he kicks the boy’s ankle under the table. “I’m Minho,” he whispers.The boy kicks back. “Newt.”“Wanna sit next to me at lunch?” They’ve only just started classes, so things like eating together and seeing actual people (the scientists that visit their cramped, grey rooms don’t count) are still novelties. Newt grins, exposing a gap where his front teeth should be. “Yeah.”“Cool,” Minho says. His legs swing under the table. All of a sudden, he itches to jump out of his seat and drag Newt through the winding halls to the cafeteria, to show him the big table (close to the food and the door, a prime location) he arm-wrestled one of the bigger guys to claim. He thinks he might even give Newt one of the flavour packets he’s been stashing in secret, the weird cherry stuff they sometimes get to put in their water.Minho presses his mouth shut for the rest of the class, just to keep it from stretching into a smile.