Chapter Text
When the Box arrived, Minho stood with the other Gladers and tried to hide his curiosity by standing aloof and disinterested, like a long-time Keeper should. Hushed whispering was thick in the air, the boys sweating slightly under the noontime sun as they huddled. Minho wiped his brow, shucking glad the flies hadn’t come to pester the group yet.
He noted some of the boys were covering their ears, trying to protect their brains from the sharp clanging and grating of the coming Box. Minho had long since become used to it. Almost comforted by it. The Box meant food, supplies, and help. In this case, it meant a new boy would be thrown into this paradoxical hell. Minho didn’t like that part as much, but he selfishly allowed the curiosity to gnaw at him anyways.
Finally, the grating, crushing sound that accompanied the arrival came to a screeching halt, and the Gladers waited with bated breath as the panels on the Box slid open to reveal their new brother.
He was… somewhat underwhelming. Greenbeans always were. The boy looked about seventeen (though Minho admitted he was a terrible judgment of age), with cropped brown hair and a splattering of freckles over his arms and neck. His hands were covering his face, and Minho remembered being similarly blinded when he’d first entered the Glade. Newt stood shielding his eyes from the sun as well, looking across the Box with trepidation. Before Minho could find what he was looking at, Alby gruffly gave the honorary welcoming.
“Nice to meet ya, Shank. Welcome to the Glade.”
The newcomer was obviously overwhelmed, but he hadn’t started crying or shouting yet, and for that, Minho was grateful. He stood back as Alby and Adam hoisted the boy from the Box. Minho crossed his arms over his chest when the boy began gazing around the group with eyes the size of shucking plates. Nothing new or different, Minho thought, and turned with a plan to grab a bite from the kitchens before returning to the Maze. Nothing is ever really new or different.
***
Minho discovered that things were, in fact, new and different. He pumped his arms as he forced his legs to take him that last stretch to the West Door, breath catching in his throat and sweat pooling in his eyes, in his ears, and sliding down his back. His mind was whirling, trying to figure what could have killed a Griever in the Maze. Are there more monsters in there?! Shuck, have they been watching us, too? Minho cleared a vine that crossed the path, dust billowing as he immediately skidded and turned left where the Door opened into the Glade. Minho couldn’t help but feel like something was following him. The hair on his arms raised and prickled, not helping Minho’s frantic heartbeat. Gotta tell Alby, gotta tell Alby, Minho chanted, his eyesight blurry as his feet passed from soil to dense grass.
Minho made it three steps past the Door and heaved over his knees, gasping for breath as the sun continued to beat down on his back. If that Griever was dead, then maybe there’s a way we can kill them, maybe we can escape, maybe this is the break we’ve needed all this time, maybe maybe maybemaybemaybe-- Minho blinked to see black spots across the grass and he felt like cotton was being stuffed into his skull. With a sudden rush of dizziness, Minho fell to his knees and keeled over right there in the shucking dirt. He breathed heavily, unable to keep his eyes open. He willed the vertigo to pass and was desperately hoping he wouldn’t vomit all over himself like a piece of klunk, when suddenly a hand was gripping his shoulder.
“Hey— you okay?” a voice called. Minho didn’t recognize it, but it was gentle and comforting.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Minho forced out. Just peachy.He glanced up, his eyes blurry and stinging with sweat. An unfamiliar figure crouched before him, but Minho didn’t feel afraid. Habitually, he threw out a, “who the klunk are you?”
The boy introduced himself as Thomas. Minho rubbed his eyes and blinked them to clarity. The boy—Thomas—was the Greenie from the day before. Up close, Minho saw his freckles spiraled up his neck to his cheeks and nose, and dipped down below his shirt. And his eyes… they were so concerned and freakin’ wide, Minho wanted to smack him. No one should look at Minho that way. And Minho shouldn’t like it.
As Minho continued to take in deep lungfuls of earth-scented air, he noted Thomas’ wide eyes glanced over Minho’s person with rapt attention. And it was then that Minho realized he could be in deep klunk. Before Minho could contemplate the nature of the glance, Alby was there, and Minho was reminded of his recent flight and news. He pushed thoughts of Thomas and eyes like amber gems to the back of his mind.
***
Once the adrenaline faded, and Thomas was officially a part of the Runners, the rage that Minho had felt earlier returned full force. It was like Minho had forgotten the blank terror and anger he felt when he watched Thomas collapse on the Maze floor as the Door closed. Minho had panicked. Worse than that, Minho let his rage bring him to that panic. Memories that Minho never wanted to relive were dragged from the darkness of his mind when Thomas pulled that stunt.
So, when Minho saw the freckled teen walking across the Glade, apparently deep in thought, the memories surged up and the fury that Minho had pushed aside returned, completely unhindered. It coursed hot through Minho’s veins, blinding the teen as he walked up to Thomas. Thomas didn’t notice the other boy until he was spun around and backed into a nearby Maple tree.
“You shouldn’t have come after me,” Minho growled, gripping the front of Thomas’ shirt in his shaking fists. “We made it, but that wasn’t ever done before. Do you understand that? Do you understand that no one has lived that before? Survived a night in the Maze?” Minho’s voice grew louder with every word.
“Dude, back off,” Thomas said, trying to break away from Minho. His face was bunched in growing frustration.
“No, not until you shucking listen to me!” Minho bent his head until he was eye to eye with those amber gems. “All three of us could have died. Just like that; body parts added to the Graveyard.” Thomas stared back with his jaw set and nostrils flaring. “Why would you follow when no one had done it before!” Minho saw flashes of red, saw a boy swallowed by darkness as Minho was pushed to safety. He felt nauseous.
“I’ll never leave someone when I know I could help them,” Thomas snarled. He gripped Minho’s hand and shoved it into Minho’s own chest. “You just elected me as the new Keeper of the Runners, and now you’re saying klunk about this?”
“I did that to get you a place as a Runner! You obviously deserve it!”
“Then why the ever-loving shuck are you here right now!” Thomas was heaving and Minho could see that the other boy’s own anger was brimming at the surface. Minho roared and slammed his fast onto the bark right beside Thomas’ head. He just doesn’t understand!
Thomas didn’t look at Minho with fear. He wore a firm mask of determination, and he stared at Minho like he was studying a curious new species. The Asian breathed heavily though his nose, his knuckles stinging and muscles straining to stay still and not act directly on the boy in front of him.
“Are you more like Gally? And you’d rather see me dead than a part of the Glade?” Minho couldn’t help the bubble of hysterical laughter that burst from his lips. You’d compare me to that nutcase?!
“Ya slinthead, no, I don’t want to see you dead.” Minho shook his head before gazing at Thomas through his dark lashes. “That’s the whole point.”
More flashes of memory shot through Minho’s mind. A voice screaming at him to run faster, to get out, that the Door was shutting. He remembered being pushed through where he rolled and rolled and came to a stop on the other side, safe in the Glade. But he had seen the Griever… and Alex had turned to face it…
“Just promise me you won’t act like a shucking martyr again,” Minho said, suddenly exhausted. He dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut, praying those stupid tears wouldn’t fall. They always took him by surprise. The emotions.
“I can’t,” Thomas whispered. Minho huffed a laugh. Of shucking course he can’t. After scrubbing a hand over his face roughly, Minho stood up straight and backed away from Thomas and the tree. He shrugged and forced a smile, hoping it came across as natural.
“Hope you learned something, at least,” Minho said. He couldn’t help the flash of guilt and regret at his own actions in the Maze, of leaving Alby and Greenie at the Door and running. You thought he was behind you, Minho thought, you thought he would follow and you both could get away. Minho had been sick on the vines when he found out he was wrong.
“I did, that’s for sure,” Minho continued. “You’re one heck of a freakin’ Runner.”
“You’re more clever than you give yourself credit for,” Thomas said. “You’re the one who came up with the plan to—“
“No,” Minho interrupted, putting up his already-bruising hand to stop Thomas. “No, I saw you and your shuck-faced brilliant dive and realized that it could work in a different place. That the Cliff could be useful. The rest was all you.” Thomas didn’t respond. He gazed off across the Glade, his expression indiscernible. The anger seemed to have subsided in the other teen as well, and Minho was grateful.
Minho didn’t want to be at odds with Thomas, no matter how stupid his actions had been. Minho wasn’t lying when he said he wanted Thomas as one of his Runners. The guy was a natural. Not only that, but Minho had the urge to know him better and see more of him. Yeah, and yelling at him and punching a tree beside him is really gonna foster some good feels, what were you thinking you idiot.
Minho looked across the Glade with Thomas. He glanced over at the other teen a few times, but those eyes that had distracted Minho with their wide, curious nature had already begun to close off after their night in the Maze. They wouldn’t look at Minho.
It was simple. The two boys had both stared Death in the shucking face last night. Minho had never felt so terrified or alone in his life when he had split from Thomas and Alby. And after the show that Thomas had given, both his unshakable resolve and his shattering breakdown, Minho had developed a thick reserve of respect for the other boy. As well as a healthy interest in the teen, but it all coiled in an ugly mass with the memories of another boy from over a year ago. The pile of emotions and thoughts made Minho’s throat close up.
Minho shook his head, unable to discern why he cared so much. Why, even after everything, he wanted Thomas running with him in that Maze every day. Why he wanted those eyes fixed on him again.
Exhaustion rippled through his limbs, thoroughly replacing the anger. Minho just wanted to sleep. Thomas didn’t look much better. Now that Minho’s single-minded rage was lessened, he saw the haunted look Thomas wore. I did that, Minho thought. I made him fight with someone he lives near. His Keeper. Shuck… why did you have to let your emotions get the better of you?
“Even after I said the vines were a klunk idea,” Minho said, trying to lighten to mood, “your freakin’ butt went up there and used them.” It worked some. Thomas was smiling slightly, shrugging one shoulder begrudgingly. Minho reached out a hand and gripped Thomas’ bicep. He was surprised the boy didn’t flinch away.
“You’re a Runner, through and through, Thomas.” Thomas looked up at Minho, and Minho swore the boy was looking into Minho’s very mind. “I just wish you didn’t have to be.”
Having those gemstones locked on him again made his heart leap into his throat, and his eyes flitted over Thomas’ freckles, mindlessly counting them. He didn’t notice the way Thomas’s eyes traced the curvature of his jaw and the slope of his muscled neck. Shuck, Minho was tired.
“Why did you vote for me to be Keeper of the Runners?” Thomas asked, and Minho realized his hand was still resting on Thomas. He was warm. He brought his hand back to his side abruptly.
“Already told you, shank, shoot high and you’ll at least get something, right?” Minho replied as he shoved his hands into his pockets, still slightly surprised himself at his own declaration earlier. But hey, it worked out, didn’t it?
“That was a little much though. I mean, I know how everyone looks at me right now, with that stunt I pulled, and how everything is familiar here and—“
“Whoa, whoa dude, this place is shucking familiar to you?” Thomas looked uncomfortable but nodded, his eyes hardened, as if ready for an attack.
“Lucky shank,” Minho grumbled after a moment. He ignored the way his heart momentarily stuttered at the thought that Thomas could be a spy, could be with the Creators like everyone was whispering. That Thomas could lead them all to their deaths.
But he ignored it without hesitation, because when Minho looked at the freckled boy, he didn’t see a spy or a killer. He saw a brave, clever orphan with gemstone eyes, muscled arms, and a savagely caring disposition. He saw a boy who risked his life for the slim chance that he could save two others in a situation where the odds were none.
Minho realized that if Thomas were a killer for the Creators, Minho would probably be the first to go. He trusted Thomas. And that was that. Shuck it.
“Lucky is one way to put it,” Thomas chuckled darkly, looking out over the Glade from their spot beside Deadhead forest. Minho shrugged.
“Yeah, it is.” Thomas glared at the Asian. “I reckon that’s why you’re like, fifty times less scared of this place than all other Greenies. You’ve got some familiarity. Would’ve given my left nut to recognize anything, ya shank.” Thomas huffed and another smile pulled at his lips. Minho nodded in mock concentration. “I am fine with having a full set though, thank you very much.” Thomas chuckled and carded a hand through his short locks. He locked eyes with Minho, who remained stoic, nodding sagely at the boy, until Thomas downright snorted and Minho followed suit laughing.
“As for Gally,” Minho said, “well, he’s a bit of a piece of klunk to everyone. Usually he calms down a bit after a few days. Just wait and see.” Thomas nodded, looking over Minho as if he were, again, searching for something particular in the Asian. They began walking towards the kitchen, Minho leading the way a little ahead.
“You don’t show things like that often, do you,” Thomas said after a moment. Minho shrugged, suddenly feeling exposed. “You care more than everyone thinks you do.” Minho was glad that Thomas wasn’t able to see his expression. Minho wasn’t even sure what Thomas would find, but apparently he already found more than Minho had planned to share.
“Yeah, I care about getting at least two portions of dinner tonight before knocking the shuck out.”
“Not if I take your extra portion first,” Thomas said, picking up his pace. Minho was glad Thomas took the hint and didn’t pry.
Minho found himself smiling despite the rollercoaster his heart had just experienced. He chuckled at the sheer insanity of it and began jogging towards the kitchens.
With that, the serious conversation had passed.
Dusk sunrays slanted across the Glade and peppered the two boys with light as they began throwing jokes back and forth to each other. Their breathless laughter made it up to the other Gladers before they arrived. Chuck and Newt sat down with them at an empty table, and it all felt so natural that Minho felt another surge of emotion in his gut. He quickly drowned it with chicken soup.
Newt made eye contact with Minho and Minho knew his friend could see that he was reeling inside. Newt squinted his eyes, as if silently asking, 'you good?' Minho nodded. Yeah, I’m good…
Minho couldn’t help but want to make Thomas laugh more, keep him smiling. The kid looked like he needed it. Minho just wished the boy’s actions today didn’t remind him so vividly of the previous Keeper of the Runners.
***
That night, just as Minho was about to fall asleep under the stars, he heard a boy get up none too quietly, as if he was attempting for stealth but failing miserably. “Shuck off,” one boy mumbled, and a, “sorry!” squeaked a little farther off.
Chuck?
When the not-so-sneaky boy managed to step on Minho’s calf, he sat upright and caught Chuck by the arm, eyes adjusting to the din.
“Where you off to?” Minho asked, his voice barely a whisper. Chuck inclined his head for Minho to follow, and Minho rolled his eyes at the seriousness of the motion. The kid looked like he was performing a sacred duty, sneaking out of bed in the shuck of night. Minho grumbled and wiggled out of his sleeping bag, before following. Minho made sure to pick between the boys with more grace than the twelve year old in front of him. They began to walk towards to forest. “Dude really, what are you doing?”
“Thomas sleeps under a tree out there,” Chuck said simply. Minho noticed the younger boy had a blanket folded in his arms. Minho blinked.
“Oh.” Minho never realized Thomas hadn’t slept with the other Gladers. He felt almost guilty for not noticing, but shook his head. He’s only been here three shucking days, give it a rest dude.
The chirping crickets in the Glade sounded louder as they edged towards the forest and her plentiful foliage. It smelled cleaner out here, away from all the stinking Gladers. As the two boys stepped under the trees, it was cooler and Minho shivered slightly.
The two boys picked their way to a small clearing near the end of Deadhead forest where a body lay curled underneath a tall Ponderosa Pine, snoring softly. Chuck unfolded the blanket he brought with difficulty, the fabric longer than he was tall and getting caught under his feet. Minho snorted and snatched the blanket from him before shaking it out and draping it gently over a sleeping Thomas. Minho crouched there for a moment, observing the slow rise and fall of Thomas’ chest. Thomas looked nice. That is, Minho mentally corrected, it looks nice to sleep here, and that Thomas looks peaceful and comfortable and that is nice.
Minho stood and turned back to Chuck to make their way back to the field, but the brat was already gone. Minho sighed, rolling his eyes again as he made his way back alone. He did not look back at Thomas, or consider what it would be like to lay next to him. Absolutely not.
***
Training Thomas was easy. The boy caught on quick, memorizing the twists and turns of the Maze, and keeping up with Minho with nearly no trouble. He even mastered the technique of slicing bits of vine and throwing them on the path while running within an hour. The only way Minho could tell Thomas was out of breath was the way his face would turn red and he would purse his lips to release short bursts of air. Minho would slow for a moment and let the freckled boy take a breath.
As the days went on, Minho found that Thomas needed the breathers less and less. That didn’t mean he stopped teasing him with sexual comments that ranged from, “come on, man, you need to work on your stamina,” to, “imagine you’re about to go in for round three with the hottest chick in the world! Would you wanna look like that?”
They chatted when they rested, splitting packed lunches between them and drinking from the same water bottle. It was so easy to be around Thomas. When he laughed, like really laughed, Minho couldn’t help but laugh too, almost overwhelmed by the joy in his chest. He’d never had a friend like this before, and he relished every moment. Newt was a constant for Minho, but he wasn’t a source of comfort and camaraderie. That was Thomas.
Soon, the frustration at Thomas’ hero demonstration faded in severity. The similarity between Thomas and the previous Keeper of the Runners began and ended at Thomas’ thoughtless leap through the closing Door. Minho was grateful for that.
Minho picked up the duty of blanketing Thomas under his Pine tree every night. Chuck sort of recognized the shift and gave it up more than willingly, but the looks he gave Minho in the morning made Minho shifty and almost embarrassed. Why the shuck should he be embarrassed? Chuck had done to same thing for a few nights, for shank’s sake. It was the way Thomas looked at him in the morning light, though, bright-eyed and smiling, that kept Minho going each night without hesitation. Maybe it was also for the additional chance to see the freckled boy.
“Let’s go find something today, eh Minho?” Thomas said around a mouthful of oatmeal one morning. A couple bits flew onto Minho’s shirt, and he released a prolonged, “ugh!” Thomas rolled his eyes as he finished chewing, ignoring the extravagant show Minho was making of picking each and every oat piece from his person. He could be a comedian, really. Minho pretended the show wasn’t meant to ignore how much he enjoyed Thomas saying his name.
“Yeah, let’s go do that,” Minho snarked, slowly standing up from the bench before glancing at Thomas. Smirking, Minho quickly shoved Thomas’ face into the remains of his oatmeal. Chuck spit up a mouthful of water and Minho sprinted for the West Door, cackling as he heard, “YOU SLINTHEAD!” echoing across the Glade. Minho missed the way Chuck beat the table as he choked on his own laughter, as well as the knowing glance Newt threw after the retreating Asian.
Worth it.
When Thomas caught up to Minho where he was waiting at the Door, he cuffed Minho over the head and threw Minho’s pack at his face. Without waiting for Minho, Thomas rushed into the Maze with a goofy laugh. Minho was left cackling at the Door before he shrugged the pack over his shoulders.
Minho began to jog behind Thomas, shamelessly admiring the view and consciously ignoring the voice that told him he should keep his eyes on the path. Thomas glanced back and smirked before he took the first right. After a minute, Minho sprinted to catch up, and they ran together in companiable silence. The minutes passed easily, the scent of earth almost enough to make Minho ignore the smell of lingering oil and hot metal. The two teens alternated cutting a piece of vine to throw on the path, just in case they lost their way. Birds twittered from high above and morning light occasionally streaked across the pair of Runners. The air was cool on Minho’s tongue. He couldn’t help but grin. Running had always been enjoyable, but it never had been this delicious.
It was, as usual, an uneventful day. By the time they took their first full break, it was nearly noon with the sun almost directly overhead. Thomas looked so peaceful. He held his face to the sky, leaning back on his hands, breaths measured and full. Minho leaned over, noticing a wad of oatmeal that had crusted onto Thomas’ jaw. It was covering at least two freckles. Without thinking, he reached up to pick it off.
Thomas jerked away when Minho touched him, and Minho froze, hand outstretched, eyes locked with amber gemstones. “Oatmeal,” Minho said, his tongue heavy in his mouth, heart beating wildly and brain whirling as if he’d committed a sin. Thomas’ eyes were so wide, just like his first day when he was in the Box.
“Where,” Thomas said, voice soft. Minho couldn’t fathom why they were talking so quietly, but he didn’t want to break it. He steeled himself and reached forward again slowly to remove the leftovers of his morning prank.
“Here,” Minho whispered, fingers peeling it away and dropping it to the Maze floor. He was closer to Thomas now, leaning forward on one hand, the other hovering beside Thomas’ cheekbone. What do I do now? Minho panicked. His heart fluttered and stomach churned. Why the shuck do I need to do anything now? I’m frozen like a piece of dried klunk! Then Thomas turned his head slightly so his skin brushed Minho’s fingertips. His eyes never left Minho’s, not even to watch as Minho swallowed thickly.
“Thanks,” Thomas said. Minho’s lips parted, his mind in overdrive. It clicked. And Minho stopped breathing. Oh shuck, this is full-blown attraction to a shucking dude that you mother-shucking live with, oh klunkshuck--
Minho pulled back and nodded sharply, grunting out a, “welcome”, before turning to chug from their water bottle. His mouth should not be this dry right now. He began packing up while ignoring the feeling of Thomas’ eyes on him. Minho was ready to run again within fifteen seconds flat. Thomas stood, and Minho finally looked at him to see the shank smirking, his captivating eyes nearly leaving Minho rooted to the spot. Minho glared at the teen and forced his legs to move.
“You got a problem?” Thomas said.
“Shank,” Minho tossed behind him as he began to run, needing to say something to break the heavy pause.
“Klunk-face,” Thomas replied, his voice breaking into his dopey laughter. Minho was glad Thomas couldn’t see the klunk-eating grin he wore. Maybe this was okay. It sure as shuck felt okay.
***
Minho padded barefoot into Deadhead forest, carefully picking his way around pinecones and branches. The moon was bright tonight and he could easily discern where to step. The familiar quilt was bundled in one muscled arm, and he looked up to see the Thomas Tree, as Minho had dubbed it. The boy for whom the tree was named lay curled up as usual. Minho unwrapped the blanket as he walked forward, shaking it out with a flick of his wrists. He crouched to drape it over his fellow Runner.
Minho froze when wide gemstones gazed at him, completely awake.
“Minho,” Thomas said. Minho managed to raise one arched brow.
“Yeah?” Minho was surprised at how steady his voice was, his lungs stuttering as his eyes traced vibrant freckles on Thomas’ pale face, his skin nearly glowing in the moonlight that cut through the branches. Minho realized he hadn’t released the quilt, and he let it drop onto Thomas before resting his elbows on his knees to remain crouched before the other teen. Minho watched Thomas swallow, the shadow of his Adam’s apple bobbing dark against the moon-pale skin.
“There’s room.”
“Huh?” Minho said, knowing exactly what Thomas meant but doubted himself all the same. Thomas did not just invite him to sleep under the Thomas Tree. With Thomas himself. He wouldn’t, it wouldn’t make sense, unless--- unless what? Minho squinted down at Thomas who began to sit up and cross his arms.
“Room. Here,” Thomas said. He paused. “With me.” Minho inhaled harshly, the sound loud in the limited space between them. Crickets continued to chirp around them, a breeze ruffling his hair and stirring Minho to nod before he could think any more about it. It didn’t mean what Minho thought it meant. It couldn’t. Was it even okay to be attracted to a guy like this? Was it normal? Minho couldn’t remember. All the guys talked about girls, and maybe (definitely) there were rumors about some of the guys his age fooling around with each other, but that was it. Fooling around.
“Uh, okay. Yeah. Look at all this room.” Minho turned to lay himself down a few feet away from Thomas and he couldn’t help but panic that Thomas wanted to fool around. Minho didn’t want that.
Okay, Minho admonished internally. I’m not opposed. I’ve got eyes, a brain, and a dick, I’m not an idiot. That would be very nice.
The problem was Minho wanted more. There was no way Thomas wanted that, too. Thomas was not just a nice ass and a pretty smile. Though he definitely had those perks.
It took over an hour for Minho to drift off to sleep facing away from Thomas, his heart confused, mind spinning, and feet cold. He didn’t see Thomas gaze at his back from under the quilt, an expression of hurt, guilt, and indecision etched between his brows. He didn’t see the space Thomas had made under the quilt that would perfectly fit a well-built Keeper.
***
“So you know what I said to him?” Minho snorted to himself at the memory and Thomas let out a huffed, “huh” as they jogged their way back to the West Door. Minho began to mimic George with massive exaggeration, “Uhh, yeah hey good-looking.” Thomas barked a laugh. “Can I, you know, like do something with you?” Thomas was still laughing and Minho kept going. “You know, that stuff… I’ll make you feel good.” Minho let his voice drop an octave and the end, and Thomas tripped over his own feet so hard his almost ate it.
“George refuses to say ‘sex’, dude, it’s sad really,” Minho laughed, steadying Thomas with one arm while jogging backwards. The freckled teen wiped his face, the grin plastered to his face making Minho’s stomach flip. “But you know what the best part is?” Minho continued, waiting for affirmation from Thomas. “Mag was so sick with the flu or something that he literally klunked himself laughing.”
“Oh shuck, no!”
“Dude it was nasty,” Minho snickered, rounding the corner, only to come face to face with a Griever. Minho instantly stopped and turned to stop Thomas. His arm wrapped around Thomas’ chest and he pushed to teen backwards around the corner again, ignoring the fingers gripping his forearm hard enough to bruise. His heart was beating a mile a minute and his only thought was to protect protect protect, won’t leave him behind this time, oh shuck how’re we going to get back--
Minho only realized the fingers were trying to remove his arm when they were a good four yards away from the fork in the path.
“Minho, Min stop, I don’t think it’s following us,” Thomas snapped, placing both hands on Minho’s shoulders to stop him. Thomas was running backwards, trying to stop the single-minded Asian. Minho was breathing heavily, and he tried to slow his heart to hear over the rushing in his ears. Nothing. No clanging, no whirring. Silence. It made Minho sick. Minho shrugged Thomas’ hands off him and began to pace.
“From here, there’s only one way back, and it’s shucking that way,” Minho growled, pointing roughly to where the silent Griever sat just behind the fork in the Maze.
“I know, shuck-face,” Thomas said, nostrils flaring.
“There’s only so much time we have to wait, and there’s only one other way it could go, and that’s a shucking dead-end,” Minho said, thumb jerking towards the fork leading left, “so we’ll only have a moment to get around and—“ Minho’s pacing was interrupted by Thomas’ grip once again on his shoulders. Thomas shook him a little, and Minho grunted, trying to break free, only for Thomas to shake him again.
“Look at me, man, we’re going to get out of here. I won’t let it get you.” Minho huffed through his nose, his lips curled in an ugly scowl.
“Shuck you,” Minho spat, his fear filling his stomach and throat with acid so rancid he could almost smell it. You’ll protect me? You shucking klunk, I’m not going to let it get to you, you know what would happen to me if you were shucking taken in front of me? I won’t let it, shuck that, you selfish, good-for-nothing--
“You think you’re the only one who cares?!” Thomas yelled, shaking Minho again and Minho stopped. His eyes snapped to those amber gemstones. Minho blanched and reddened in quick succession, realizing he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Maybe we can run past it.” Minho rolled his eyes, successfully pushing away Thomas’ warm hands before bringing his own hands into his hair. “It wasn’t moving,” Thomas insisted, already walking in the direction of the waiting Griever.
“Don’t you dare, Thomas,” Minho snarled, jogging to catch up. “You suicidal bastard, get back here—“ But suddenly, Thomas’ expression became determined and unafraid, like it had when he ran from the Grievers nearly a month ago. Minho tried not to choke on his own fear as he ran to catch up.
“Please, please, please don’t move,” Minho gasped quietly, begging the Griever to have mercy as he watched Thomas turn the corner ahead of him.
Minho wasn’t breathing. He rounded the corner without a thought, his mind empty and yet screaming simultaneously. Thomas was racing beyond the silent Griever. Thomas looked back, his gemstone eyes panicked and Minho didn’t connect the dots that the fear he was for him until he had skirted beside the mass of metal and fleshy goop and reached Thomas’ side. Thomas clasped one hand on the back of Minho’s neck and gripped Minho’s arm with the other.
The freckled boy was searching for something, and Minho didn’t know what it was or if he found it. Thomas was heaving in lungfuls of air and he nodded once before dragging Minho with him to start jogging towards the Door again. Minho followed blindly. Coward, Minho cursed himself. Such a shucking coward. Minho didn’t notice the tears that welled up even when it was hard to see, and he blinked only to have them fall down his cheeks. He didn’t notice when he followed Thomas over their vine markers, and finally back through the West Door and into the Glade.
Minho kept running to the Map Room behind Thomas and only stopped when he closed the door behind them both. Minho felt numb, and he plastered on what he hoped was a carefree smile when Thomas glanced his way. Minho grabbed a piece of paper and began drawing before he could see Thomas’ expression, the lines on the paper appearing out of habit and memory combined. A soft hand rested on the back on Minho’s neck. Minho shuddered, realizing he was still breathing heavily.
“You okay?” Thomas asked. Minho looked up and gave his signature smirk. It felt like his face was cold wax, unwilling to mold to his liking.
“Never better,” Minho said, his voice nearly cracking. Thomas’ brows drew together and he pulled up a chair beside the Asian, hand still gripping Minho. He brought up another hand to his cheeks and stroked them gently, as if tracing lines down each one. The intimacy in the movement brought feeling back to Minho’s mind and body, and he collapsed in on himself. “I’m a coward,” Minho whispered, feeling his eyes well up again.
“For shank’s sake, you’re not a shucking coward,” Thomas said, shaking his head in apparent disbelief before he rested his forehead on Minho’s shoulder. “You’re brave, and smart, and you’ve got way more experience at running than I do. Dude, I look up to you. I admire your strength. Shuck it, almost everyone in the entire Glade looks up to you,” Thomas continued. “It’s okay to be afraid of the Grievers, Min. They’re shucking terrifying. You think I’m not scared, too?”
Minho gulped before leaning his head on Thomas’ and closing his eyes. He didn’t respond, and Thomas didn’t say anything else. Thomas was so easy to be around, even in moments like this, when Minho would usually rather he was alone. Not for the first time, Minho felt the comfort of being alone with someone else, with Thomas. A hand on his neck, fingers cupping his face, and warmth beneath his cheek, Minho let himself relax.
He allowed himself a minute before he turned to finish the map before him. Thomas moved only to shift his hand from Minho’s cheek to his thigh. Minho didn’t object. And the tears never fell.