Work Text:
Minho will never tell Newt this, but the first time he opens his eyes, it's Newt's face he sees.
It's close, too close, makes his breath short out as he flinches away, desperately reaching around for a weapon, anything, shuffling back as hands reach out to him. (When he thinks back on that first time, all he remembers is the brown of Newt's eyes and the gold of his hair, a halo that makes him glow in the midday sun.)
“Get away from me,” he hisses out, but the strange guy's face is set in a stubborn line, eyebrows furrowed, lips thinned out as he grips his shoulders firmly and pulls him out of the cage he's in. For a boy his size, the guy sure has a strong grip, all warm and electrifying points through his shirt, and he curls an easy arm around his waist, supporting him a short way before his own knees give out, sending him sprawling onto the grass (cool against his cheek, the one familiar thing that sparks recognition somewhere). He curls up on the floor and desperately tries not to throw up as more boys start crowding around them.
“You with me?” the guy says, but he just curls in on himself and presses his face to the grass. He's going to die, out here, wherever he is, and the panic is clawing at his throat and threatening to split his skin and spill from his lips– “Hey, hey.” His head snaps up immediately, and there is the guy again, hands on his shoulder and looking carefully into his eyes. “It's going to be alright. I've got you.”
God knows why, but he believes him (maybe it's the way he says it, maybe it's the panic that suddenly stills at those words, maybe it's because he wants to believe) and he closes his eyes and breathes.
“Minho,” he says one evening, sitting straight up in his hammock. “Minho.”
Newt's looking over at him, one eyebrow raised as he sharpens a knife against a rock.
“Minho,” he says again, the name, the feeling of it on his lips giving him a rush, heady and addictive and wonderful. “Minho,” and he rolls the word on his tongue, grinning when it comes out smooth and rugged and perfect.
“Newt.”
He snaps his head around so quickly, to see Newt's unimpressed look, hands still deftly working the knife against the stone, the sharp scrape scrape scrape a soothing melody despite the jarring sound of metal on rock. Minho frowns. “What?”
“You kept saying your own name,” Newt says, holding his gaze in the low light of the lamp. “So I thought I'd add in my own contributions and say mine.”
This surprises a laugh out of Minho, which Newt returns with a smirk (which, on Newt – Minho quickly learned – was as good as a full body laugh), and he lays back on the hammock, stretching out comfortably with his hands crossed behind his head. Maybe it's the adrenaline, but the sky looks less foreboding tonight, the lights flickering around him giving him a surreal sense of happiness that he desperately tries to keep in his gut.
“I like it,” Newt says, his knife still going scrape scrape scrape against the rock. “Minho.”
The first time he leaves the Glade, Newt's with him.
“Minho,” Newt calls, shooting him a grin. “You're with me.”
He nods, fingers tightening around the strap of his pack, jogging up to Newt and taking up his spot next to him. The Glade is silent, the Runners milling about as they wait for the walls to open.
“You stay close to me,” Newt continues, wrapping his hands up and curling his fingers into a fist. “You stay close or you get lost. You get lost and we'll leave you there for the Grievers to get.”
Minho grimaces and nods again, sharply. There's the sound of wind, a low rumbling, and the walls pull apart, an old rustic sound that sets off Minho's fight or flight instinct every time.
“Ready?” Newt asks, looking over to him, and when Minho returns the gaze, he sees the warmth in it and knows that Newt will never leave him behind.
“Try not to fall behind,” Minho says with a returning grin and takes off to the sound of Newt's surprised laughter.
When other the next boy comes in a month later, it's Alby that pulls the gate open and hops in.
“I thought you did the introductions?” Minho asks, watching the greenie throw up all over the grass, Alby's hands running up and down his back in long, soothing movements.
“Nah,” Newt says with a shrug. “Alby usually does it, but he was busy when you came up.”
His arms are folded across his chest, mirroring Minho's stance, and the two of them watch in silence as Alby lifts the new kid almost effortlessly, gesturing to the other boys to “give the greenie some room”.
“Plus,” Newt continues after another moment of shared silence, “You were too pretty for me to leave alone.”
Minho feels his face heat at that, but grins and bumps his shoulder amicably against Newt's. “You had a soft spot for me didn't you? Took one look at my face and knew you wanted to keep me.”
Newt scoffs but Minho feels his shoulders shake against his anyway, knows he's laughing and it makes Minho unspeakably lighter, the two of them, standing like this and watching the greenie try and fail to stand on his own.
“I think Alby would've done a better job than you though.”
The look of outrage on Newt's face is completely worth the resulting dirt fight.
It's late. Later than usual. Minho's turning the corners and picking up speed, mind running through the routes. Left, right, right, right, left.
There's the telltale whistling of wind, and Minho's partner is yelling out to him to “Hurry the hell up!” which makes the fear prickling at the back of his neck hit him full force.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath. “Shit shit shit.”
The opening's right there, but then the low groaning starts up, the walls shudder, and then with an almost imperceptible sigh, starts shifting close.
“Come on Minho!” his partner calls, already safely on the other side of the wall. “Come on!”
He picks up speed, feet pounding against the gravel, blood roaring in his ears.
“Come on Minho!”
He's halfway through, but the walls are closing in on him.
“Come on!”
It's too fast, too soon.
“Come on!”
He's not going to make it, he's not he's not he's not–
Hands reach through the gap, gripping his shirt and yanking him forward into an ungainly sprawl, his chin hitting a chest and whole body skidding with the force of the motion.
There is a collective sigh of relief, but Minho's heart is pounding too hard, breath coming out too short, and when he looks up all he sees is brown and gold gold gold.
“Shit,” and it's the voice, the rise and fall of the chest beneath him, the low thump thump thump of a heart that snaps Minho out of it, and his vision clears to see Newt sprawled under him, hair tousled, and eyes unbearably worried. “Well that was close.”
“Too close,” Alby says, voice tight, and Minho feels strong hands lifting him as he tries to stop his knees from buckling under him. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Minho's mouth isn't working, hell his brain probably won't be working normally anytime in the foreseeable future, and he suddenly feels like its his first day in the Glade all over again.
His vision starts to narrow, everything else drowning out and he feels half like he's floating and half like he's drowning, but then there are warm hands gripping his face and he refocuses his gaze to find Newt staring at him, so close they could touch.
“Minho,” he says, voice warm and strong and steady. It anchors him to the here and now, lifts him above the waves and makes the fear that threatens to crush his lungs bearable. “Minho, hey,” and Minho looks, looks, and sees the worry and fear and relief and anger and gentleness in Newt's gaze. “I've got you.”
And just like that first day, Minho believes.
“You fucking prick,” Newt says, mouth moving against his abdomen. “Bloody idiot.” There are hands trailing down his sides, fingers mapping out every bump and crevice, tongue tracing scars both new and old, and Minho feels hot, too hot, despite having taken off all his clothes a long time ago.
“Newt,” he groans, as clever fingers find his cock and takes him in hand, a firm stroke leaving him a messy, blubbering mess.
“I though I'd lost you,” Newt murmurs into his skin, and Minho cups his face, trying to pul him up to kiss him again, lick his way into Newt's mouth and tell him that he's here, he's alive.
But Newt pulls away and swallows him in one smooth movement, and Minho arches off the forest floor, fingers tightening involuntarily into Newt's hair and oh god. Newt's mouth is soft and wet and so so good, making his head spin and his skin feel too tight, and he feels like he's about to crumble into dust and explode into a thousand pieces at the same time. He's reduced to a blubbering mess of “Oh– oh fuck” and “Newt– oh my god– Newt–“ as hands, hot and heavy and strong, hold him down, the only thing keeping Minho from mindlessly fucking into his mouth.
Newt's teeth scrape the underside of his cock, making his toes curl as his gut tightens. When Newt's tongue swirls around his slit, all he manages is a short “I'm gonna–” before he's coming so hard the world whites out for a moment.
It takes a minute, but he comes to again, and Newt's straddling him, fingers running loops on his chest, his balls hot and heavy against Minho's stomach. “I thought I'd lost you,” he whispers.
When Minho cups his head and pulls him in this time, Newt doesn't pull away, just goes and collapses on top of him, cock trapped between their bodies as Minho licks his way into Newt's mouth, slow and steady and unhurriedly, savoring the slide of lips and the warm thump thump thump of Newt's heart against his chest. He slides a hand between them and grips Newt firmly, hearing the stutter of Newt's breath as he curls into Minho, hips making small aborted thrusts into his hand.
Minho holds him tight and keeps tracing I'm here into his collarbone as Newt pants, low and desperate and so goddamned needy into his ear, his hand moving slowly, thumbing the slit of his cock every so often. “Never again,” Newt pants into his ear. “You're mine. The fucking maze doesn't get you. You're mine.”
And it's Newt that's making small keening noises in the back of his throat, but it's Minho that says “Yours yours yours all yours”, which gets Newt's hips moving erratically, breath coming out shorter and shorter before his whole body goes taut, bowing off of Minho completely, and there's warmth spreading between them as Newt whimpers into his skin.
After a long moment of catching their breaths, Minho finally moves to let Newt curl against him, properly, folding him into the larger frame of his body, enjoying the skin to skin contact, the points where their bare legs tangle and Newt's hand rests on his chest. He tucks Newt's head beneath his chin and breathes, slow and steady, feeling the fear finally settling and dying in his stomach. He's teetering on the edge of sleep, eyes heavy, consciousness quickly slipping away when he hears it, soft, murmured like a prayer into his skin. “Mine.”
“Yours,” he thinks he murmurs back, but he can't be sure because he's out like a light.
When he wakes, the first thing he sees is Newt, folded against him, fingers curled around his bicep, holding on tight.
Minho shifts and tries to move them into a more comfortable position, but Newt goes rigid in his arms and presses himself back against him, whimpering and clutching even tighter at Minho's arm, not giving way.
“Newt,” Minho quietly tries to coax, but Newt just buries further into him. Minho doesn't have the heart to wake him, so he settles for slinging his arm around Newt and holds him close. Newt melts agaisnt him, head fitting neatly into the space where shoulder meets neck, breath tickling the soft hairs there. “I've got you,” Minho murmurs, and feels his eyes fall shut again.
Newt's heart thumps a rhythm against his chest and Minho breathes.