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The temperature became bearable as night fell, but Jorge pulled them all into a small building anyway. Too dangerous, he said, to make their way through the city at night. Though starlight and a nearly full moon made it easy enough to see by, there were looming shadows between buildings. Perfect places for Cranks to hide.
Most of the Gladers had fallen asleep within minutes, and even Jorge seemed to be dozing. Newt wasn’t, though he laid back as best he could. He didn’t trust the older man’s assurance that they would be safe, and every sound, every distant cackle or crash or shriek had him worried that a Crank would burst in at any second. Plus, he was worried about Tommy. Tommy was a survivor, as much as any of them, but it was only him and some Crank girl out in a big, dangerous city. He didn’t know how they would make it to the other side, and only hoped that Brenda was as good as Jorge said.
Mostly, though, what kept him up was the persistent pain in his leg. Newt had grown used to pain, from his injury and his days as a Runner both. But for the first time since hurting his leg, he’d pushed himself to, and beyond, the limit. Their escape from the Maze had hurt, but it hadn’t pushed him this far. The muscles seized and spasmed as he tried to stretch the leg out to rest, and he was doing all he could to hold back sounds of pain. It wouldn’t do to wake and worry the others, and regardless, he wouldn’t be taken for a pansy.
Newt would simply do as he always had: Get through it on his own.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, resting against a rough, cracked wall and wincing as his leg was jostled.
He leaned forward and let out an aborted moan when he touched his ankle, his fingers barely grazing over the boot before sending spikes of pain up his leg.
“How bad?”
Newt paused. He’d hoped that everyone else was asleep, but he should’ve known that Minho would be up. The Asian boy took his new status as Leader far more seriously than he let on, and Newt knew that he trusted Jorge about as far as he could throw him.
“Not horrible,” Newt lied. Minho didn’t need to waste his time worrying about him, not when he had eight others to fret over.
Minho didn’t buy the lie. He crawled over and sat cross legged near Newt’s bum leg and a warm, strong hand found his knee. A second later, Newt felt his leg lifted and laid across Minho’s lab. He couldn’t bite back the wince when the Leader started to unlace his boot.
“Wait, you don’t have to—”
And then Minho pressed his fingers to his ankle and Newt moaned out loud, his head falling back and hitting the wall with a dull thud.
He heard Minho snicker as he removed his sock.
“They’re gonna think we’re doin’ something dirty.”
“Mmm,” Newt hummed, closing his eyes. Minho’s fingers weren’t gentle. They were firm and fumbling on occasion, pressing too hard at times. The boy’s unkempt nails scratched Newt’s skin when he moved without care. But it was amazing, the tense muscles of his leg and foot being poked and prodded and somehow forced to relax under Minho’s hands.
Minho moved his way up to his calf. It would have felt better without his trousers in the way, but he couldn’t rightly take those off without it really looking like they were up to something else.
Nevertheless, the ache in his leg faded. He actually found himself dozing, on the verge of sleep.
“Your feet stink.”
Until Minho had to go and ruin such a lovely moment, of course.
“Me an’ every other shank in this bloody room,” Newt said.
“Yeah, but I don’t got their smelly feet in my face.”
“I didn’t ask you to give me a buggin’ massage, Min,” Newt said, opening one eye. The Asian boy was looking at him, a small smile on his face. It was that secret smile he only gave to Newt, one that showed more in his eyes than on his lips. Newt didn’t know how the shank could smile after everything that happened, but for now he didn’t really care. At that moment, he was just overwhelmingly glad that the ex-Keeper was with him through it all.
“You look like klunk,” Newt said. Minho snorted and shook his head, but Newt leaned forward and took his hand, halting the fingers that danced over his knee. “Really, are you OK?”
He watched the smile falter and then disappear completely as their eyes met. Minho sighed, gently moving Newt’s leg off of is lap and scooting to sit next to him. Their hands never separated, only grew more entangled as Minho intertwined their fingers.
“You didn’t need to.”
“Need to what?” Newt asked. He squinted to make out the details of Minho’s face in the poor light. Even though they were close, he could barely see the raw, pink flesh left in the wake of the lightning and the fire, its color bled dry in the white moonlight.
“Need to ask me to give you a massage,” Minho said. “I always know what you need. But you should. Ask I mean. When you need something. Like a massage. Shuck.”
Newt couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at Minho’s attempts. The sound didn’t last long, fading into the dry night air was swiftly as it came. It wasn’t funny. None of it was, and Newt was starting to fear that nothing ever would be again, if any of them even made it out of this place.
But as much as Minho’s words were a mangled string of English, Newt understood what he meant to say.
“Goes both ways,” he said. He bumped his elbow against Minho’s side. “But you should. Ask I mean. When you need something.”
“Slim it, shuckface,” Minho grumbled. But as he said so, he laid his head against Newt’s shoulder. He never answered Newt’s question, but he didn’t need to. Newt didn’t even need to ask to know the truth.
Minho wasn’t OK. He probably hadn’t been the whole way through the city. He couldn’t come out and say it, out of pride or fear of looking weak, but he knew that he’d come to Newt for more than just the blond’s comfort. Minho needed some of his own.
He smelled like sweat and dirt, with a sharp, bitter undertone of copper. It wasn’t too unlike the scent he brought home with him from the Maze every night for all those years.
Newt rubbed his thumb over the back of the other boy’s hand and used his free hand to lift Minho’s chin.
It was simple, sweet. Newt didn’t want to hurt him, his fingers light on the Asian boy’s skin as his lips whispered everything he couldn’t say in words.
But nothing stayed demure when Minho was involved. A hand found the back of Newt’s neck, pulling him in closer, their lips melting together. Minho bit at his bottom lip before he pulled away, just enough so that they could speak.
“Speakin’ of doing something dirty…”
Newt sighed, and opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat as a mad, haunting howl ripped through the night. He felt Minho stiffen as they waited for it fade, many seconds later. They separated, and Newt looked around the room. None of the other boys appeared to have awakened, but Jorge was on his feet, crouching and peeking over the edge of a window. After a few long moments, he sat back down. His eyes found them, their hands still clasped, their heads bowed close together.
“You two should sleep,” Jorge said. “Easy to make mistakes when you’re tired, and there’s a lot of Cranks looking for easy prey.”
Without waiting for a response, Jorge laid back down, his back to them. Newt wondered briefly if that was intentional, some effort at giving them privacy, but pushed the thought away. Surely the man wouldn’t care enough to do that.
Minho’s hand moved from his neck to his cheek, pulling his head around until they were facing again, and their lips met, a quick peck before Minho pulled away.
“The violence and insanity I can forgive,” Minho said, his voice a whisper against Newt’s skin. “But those shuck Cranks are the worst cockblockers.”
Newt snorted and shoved Minho away.
“Lay your ugly arse down and get some sleep, slinthead.”