Chapter Text
-Newt-
Newt kicked open the creaky wooden door, entering one of the rooms that huddled in the corner of a house, a house that was part of Jorge’s large settlement. WICKED had infiltrated the centre of the complex, before Jorge had it blown up.
The strange man had managed to find this abandoned, shabby shelter and make it suitable to stay in.
It was dusty, a bit grimy, and all they had until they started their search for Marcus.
The room had brick walls and a coarse stone floor that, somewhere else, Jorge and the others tried to sleep on.
A dim lightbulb was all that lit the figure sitting on the floor a few feet away from Newt. A silhouette with a muscular frame, square shoulders, and a narrow waist that Newt could recognise immediately, from years of working late into the night, drawing Maps in the Deadheads.
Minho—legs crossed and shoulders slumped—was stripped to his boxers and didn’t look too happy about it. For a second he looked like a little kid, his earth-brown eyes hanging on Newt’s face expectantly and a little embarrassed.
“Heya, sunshine.”
Minho’s straight, challenging eyebrows and mature sculpture reminded Newt of the grown-up his Runner Boy had become, what Minho had risen to since he’d spat out that Box all anxious and jittery.
Newt blinked at Minho’s muscular body, every inch of it bulging with strength and courage.
“Hey,” Newt replied absently.
Newt was flustered at first, then his heart squeezed at the welts, bruises, and burns that littered Minho’s smooth, olive skin like rosette patterns on a jaguar.
Similarly, Minho had this look in his eyes, this resting face that reminded Newt of a big cat—intimidating, like it could pounce at any moment.
But Newt knew better. Newt knew Minho better.
Besides, cats were adorable when you were on their good side.
Newt felt it was good to soak the moment in. To simply meet Minho’s eyes and hold that gaze for a little while, because it wasn’t often that they had these quiet moments, where Minho could sit still and wait in peace for something good, something he didn’t have to worry about.
With a life as messed up as theirs, a break certainly made things easier.
And yet, even while Minho looked unbothered, Newt knew the pain was something bloody horrible. The physical pain, as well as the mental exhaustion.
Yes, they’d been through the gamut of experiences. Running through a Maze. Fighting venomous monsters with wooden sticks. Venturing through a desert with bloodthirsty zombies.
Minho getting struck by lightning? And surviving?
Crikey. That was the cherry on top of Newt’s crappy life.
With Tommy gone, Newt was reminded of how precarious their lives and chances of survival were. How long could they get away with running?
Not long, it seemed. It was catching up to them now.
It was taking its toll on them—everything was. Everything that had occurred from the start of this bloody hell of a life. From the moment they’d walked the grass of the Glade like it was something close to home, from the moment they’d ran the stone floor of that blasted Maze that haunted their minds even in slumber.
They were set up for chaos, loss, and misery from the moment they woke up in that lovin’ Box.
It hurt more than any pain Newt had ever felt, to see Minho in the state he was in. It took all of Newt’s strength in that moment to have hope that Tommy was alive, that he’d escaped with Brenda.
Newt forced himself to concentrate on Minho’s wounds before stressing about Tommy.
Shuck. One thing at a time.
The bandages and patches of cloth weighed more than they should have in Newt’s shaking hands, holding him to the ground and bringing him back to the present.
As did Minho’s words.
“Newt? Are you okay?”
It took a moment for Newt to digest what the Runner had said.
Then Newt chuckled. How ironic for Minho to ask Newt if he was okay. When Minho had been the one fried like a buggin’ piece of Frypan’s bacon.
“Am I okay? You daft bugger.” Newt walked over and sat down with a grunt at Minho’s feet. “You’re the shank who got zapped by the sky, and you still think I need lookin’ after?”
The side of Minho’s lips drew into a smirk, the version of his smirk that held affection he only spared for Newt. “Whoa, there, Pretty Boy. You’ll make me wanna let you fend for yourself.”
Newt scoffed and contorted his face, only feigning annoyance. He was secretly moved, though he’d always been aware he was one of Minho’s top priorities.
Not to mention Pretty Boy, the nickname Minho only used when they were alone, two words that got Newt blushing without fail.
“I don’t need you to let me fend for myself!” Newt cried while keeping his voice down (the others were getting ready for bed in another room, and the last thing Newt wanted was for them to walk in on this scene).
Newt jerked his head to get his long, blond fringe out of his eyes and grinned in a cocky manner he’d obtained from the shuckface Minho himself.
Newt still hoped his cheeks hadn’t turned pink, though.
With this switch in demeanour, Newt saw the way Minho’s face twitched; butterflies must have been swarming in Minho’s gut. Newt was the only one who could make happen, with the right amount of mock-pride.
It was bloody intoxicating, though, to know Newt could do that back to someone who gave him butterflies too.
“I could take care of myself jolly well without your help.” Newt resisted the urge to playfully shove Minho’s shoulder (which wouldn’t be so playful to Minho, if Newt’s palm pressed onto a burn that looked like a patch of still-breathing fire).
Newt scanned Minho’s face, and a sudden flush of memories made him want to stop flirting around.
Memories of them as kids poured in.
When they could run the Maze and hang their arms around each other as soon as they made it back to the Glade.
When they could sneak second servings or dessert and munch on them in the Deadheads together.
When they used to make up stories at night to drown out the sounds of Grievers screeching beyond the walls.
They had been so little, yet they’d carried so much weight. Every day it was like another imaginary rock added to the invisible sack that was slung over their shoulders.
As Newt got older, that weight grew heavier, and it became harder to carry alone.
“Though it does get a lot easier when I have your help.” Newt’s smile lowered in broken falters.
“But you should let me take care of you sometimes, Minho.”
Newt thought of the fight Minho and Jorge had hours prior.
Yeah, Minho and Jorge weren’t on hugging terms just yet, but Jorge was generous enough to let Newt take some of his bandages.
Jesus, Minho could be such a bloody twat sometimes.
Ultimately, Newt’s anger had faded since then. All that was left was pity.
Newt held up the bandages Jorge had reluctantly provided. “Jorge gave me these for you. Maybe you should use that brilliant brain of yours before diving into a fight with him again.”
“Jorge’s a bastard,” Minho seethed.
Newt looked down so Minho couldn’t see him smirking; Newt was glad to see Minho hadn’t lost his spark so easily.
“Well you owe him,” Newt pushed. He’d hate it if Minho and Jorge fought again.
“I don’t owe him crap,” Minho snapped.
Newt scowled. He cared for Minho so much. So much. Though they didn’t always get along so well.
“Do you want these lovin’ bandages or not?” Newt asked strictly.
Minho’s gaze dropped and he shrugged. He wouldn’t have given up if it wasn’t Newt he was talking to—that was what Newt presumed.
“Fine. I suppose I could use some TLC and babying.”
Minho swallowed, looking back up with his usual casualness that carried a shuck amount of attractiveness with it. “I’m cold, and those bandages look pretty damn warm.”
Newt smiled to himself. Minho radiated heat; he had the warmth of a grizzly bear. And the firm softness of a teddy when Newt would hug him.
So Minho was hiding behind the cause of being cold, because he really was in pain.
Newt’s stomach sank in sympathy, his smile fading.