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Minho has just about had it with this kid.
Really, he’s done.
First of all, what kind of name is Newt? (It should remind Minho of gross, slippery lizard-things that hide under rocks, but it doesn’t. It just reminds him of tangled blonde hair and a crooked smile.) Second of all, why does said Newt have so much damn energy? (Like a puppy. Like an adorable, cuddle-in-your-lap-to-keep-you-both-warm puppy.) Third of all, why are Newt’s pants so tight? Running in those things can’t be comfortable. (And they’re so distracting. Lord strike Minho down; they are so fucking distracting.) Fourth of all—
“Hey, Minho, catch!”
Minho is caught off guard by the sandwich that practically slaps him across the face. He scrambles to catch it, losing a perfectly good piece of lettuce in the process. They work hard for their food and Minho takes very little for granted around here, but no way in hell is he eating anything that has touched the floor of the Maze.
And Newt, damn him, is just laughing.
While Minho chooses to stare miserably down at the lettuce he just lost, Newt is laughing, and the sound is practically fucking musical.
“Not funny,” he grumbles, taking an angry bite from his sandwich as he plops down beside the lankier boy, trying not to watch the way Newt’s long fingers work over his food.
“Just trying to have some fun, is all,” Newt chuckles.
“We don’t have time for fun. We have to eat and run.”
Newt’s smile drops, but he doesn’t say anything.
And Minho thinks this is where his whole…problem started.
Ever since showing up, Newt has been nothing but blindingly optimistic. He was eager to become a Runner but played his role patiently, waiting a solid year before Minho and Alby shared the responsibility of offering Newt his new position.
From the day he started, now months into the past, Newt has been by Minho’s side by Alby’s direction, and Minho has sat through countless meals just like this one. Newt’s happiness is dizzying and worrisome and kind of glorious.
It’s definitely refreshing, and it stirred something up in Minho’s gut that has only grown as time has passed. He doesn’t acknowledge it, although he’s pretty sure that Alby sees it, too, because the bastard is always smiling at Minho when he (once again) assigns Newt as his running partner.
Newt brushes the crumbs off his fingers and Minho isn’t distracted by it. He really isn’t.
“How about a quick game?” Newt asks suddenly, smile back in full-force as he cocks his head to face Minho. “Just a little one. No harm done.”
Minho rolls his eyes. On one hand, they really should get back to running. On the other, he doesn’t want to watch the smile fall from Newt’s face again, and he doesn’t want to be the reason it happens.
“Fine,” he concedes. “Quick, though.” He tries to sound stern in an attempt to scare Newt a bit, but the other boy just fist bumps the air. “Truth or Dare then, yeah? The boys always play it back in the Glade, but you never wanna join in.”
Minho groans, resisting the urge to slam his head back against the Maze wall. “Because it’s stupid, Newt. And you shouldn’t be playing games with the other Gladers. You should be getting sleep.”
Newt waves him off. “You first. Truth or dare?”
Minho hesitates, remembering brief moments of mass embarrassment back when he was still fairly new and was dared to run around a campfire. Naked. Wearing a crown made out of sticks.
“Truth.”
Tipping his head to the side, Newt bites his lip and narrows his eyes in thought, and, again, Minho isn’t distracted at all. He’s not thinking about his teeth digging into Newt’s bottom lip, because that would be absolutely inappropriate and just plain wrong and—
“Do you like me?”
Minho stops breathing for a moment.
His mind starts moving at a million miles per hour, shooting out questions and answers and yes, I do, I reallyreally do but I think it might be a little weird so I don’t know how to tell you and besides I don’t want things to get awkward if they don’t work out but oh my god I think I really like you.
“Because sometimes I feel like you hate me.”
Oh.
Newt isn’t talking about romance.
No, because that whole thing is in Minho’s head, not Newt’s. They don’t share the same thoughts, the same feelings.
Bitterness, completely uncalled for because it’s not Newt’s fault, creeps through Minho’s bloodstream.
“I like you just fine,” he mumbles, sounding everything like the typical, whiney Greenie who didn’t get his way.
Newt must notice the change in the other boy’s mood, because he frowns. “That doesn’t sound all that convincing—“
“Truth or dare?” Minho interrupts.
Looking uncertain, Newt shrugs his shoulders and looks away. “Dare, I guess. Make it something fun, too. You’re making it pretty hard to enjoy myself right now.”
Minho scoffs, and he kind of wants to punch a wall right now, not think about some stupid dare to give Newt. He’s thinking about Newt’s stupid mouth and Newt’s stupid hair and the way the other boy always smiles like it’s always the best day of his life, even when everything’s been absolutely rotten.
“Kiss me,” he blurts, because he must have been born with only half a brain, or maybe he’s suffering from dehydration. “I dare you to kiss me.”
Newt’s eyes widen, comically wide in any other situation, but Minho can’t really laugh at anything right now. His heart is pounding, his cheeks are red, and he wants to run away really, really fast.
“I mean…I just…it was a joke…”
“Stop talking,” Newt says, and it’s probably the most serious Minho has ever seen him.
He doesn’t know what to do in this situation, so he sits absolutely still, watching with flushed skin as Newt moves so that he’s positioned a bit awkwardly on all fours. He holds up one hand, pulls it back, bites his lip, and brings it back up, resting it against Minho’s cheek.
The touch is simple. It shouldn’t be electrifying, but it sends a shiver down Minho’s spine that he thinks he’ll probably feel again in his dreams tonight.
“What are you—“
Newt just shakes his head.
Leaning forward, so slowly that Minho kind of wants to send him away for a night in the Slammer, Newt leans forward, closing the few short inches of space between them.
“I never back down from a dare,” Newt whispers.
When their lips meet, Minho’s eyes automatically slide shut. He’s never had a proper kiss (at least not one that he remembers), so he’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to be doing, but he hesitantly places a hand on Newt’s waist and lets the other boy guide their mouths, careful and gentle.
It isn’t much, and when Newt pulls away Minho surges forward without thinking about it, but it still feels like his bones are trembling and his lungs are too small to pull in any air.
Newt is smiling again, and it’s a wonderful thing to see up close.
But Minho would really rather prefer if those lips were doing something else, so he grabs the front of Newt’s shirt and pulls him down for another kiss.
He kisses with more intensity this time, swiping his tongue across Newt’s bottom lip and eliciting a sound that makes Minho’s toes curl in his sneakers.
He could die right here, really. A Griever could burst out of nowhere, stab him through the chest, and he’d be perfectly content. He’d go with a smile on his face and the taste of Newt on his tongue.
But death isn’t ready for him, at least not yet.
They pull away from each other when it’s desperately apparent that they need to breathe properly, although Minho doesn’t loosen his hold on Newt’s shirt and Newt’s fingers have somehow ended up curled through Minho’s hair.
“That took you terribly too long,” Newt pants, ducking forward so that their foreheads are pressed together.
“I didn’t know…I didn’t think you wanted the same thing…”
Newt rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “I’ve only been flirting with you since the moment I got here, shuck-face.”
Minho groans, feeling personally wounded by the lost time between them and his own stupidity.
Of course, Newt just laughs.
And maybe they should start running again, but the Maze can wait, Minho thinks.
Newt’s kisses, though…
Well, those are a matter of the utmost importance.