-I feel so guilty for not writing anything for Minewt. I hit a major writing block with these two and also had a huge writing spree with other couples. But I still love these two dearly and so, this idea came into my head and had to be written down.
In other words, yes I am alive and yes I still love Minewt. I hope you guys still wanna read about these two! XC Please let me know if you enjoyed it, as there will be a part two. Part two is open to requests from readers, as I'm still looking for what i wanna put into it haha. Thank you for all of your support, here take this Minewt now-
Stop.
No. I don't want this. Stop. Please don't. I can't. No, not him. Please. I'll do anything. Don't. Anything, just please—
Stop.
Newt had to bite his tongue when he woke up, so that he didn't scream.
He saw the edges of rumpled sheets and the slanting light playing against the far wall of the room. One of his arms stretched out in front of him, the other at his side. His vision was foggy around the edges from sleep. He waited for his eyes to adjust, blinking several times. Once they had, his gaze landed on his outstretched arm, fingers curled atop the mattress. The ragged scar at his wrist came into clear, sharp focus.
His stomach twisted. Without thought, he reached out with his other hand. His index finger traced along the scar, the tissue bumpy and wrong. He wasn't strong enough to face it again. He had to face it every day. Forcing himself to look at it head-on, he tightened his jaw in determination. In a strange, dark way, it made him feel the tiniest bit stronger to whisper, "Kyle." It tasted bitter in his mouth and he winced. The movement caused a shift of weight behind him and he inhaled quickly. Shit.
A muffled hum and then a sleep-weighted mumble next to his ear: "wha izzit, Newt?" The words "is" and "it" became a garbled singular word.
Newt felt like he should hold his breath and he wasn't sure why. "Nothing," he heard himself say. His body stiffened as the arm around his waist tightened slightly, pulling him back against a strong chest. His back and legs fit into the warm curve of Minho's body, pliant under the sheets.
"Mmkay," Minho murmured. His nose brushed Newt's hair as he lifted his chin to rest above the blonde's head. "What time is it?"
Newt glanced toward the digital clock at his bedside table. "Seven."
"Ugh."
Newt's teeth caught his lower lip, holding back a smile. "You can go back to sleep."
"Mm...yeah..." That was the last reply he was going to get, judging by the fading wakefulness.
Newt's attention flitted back to his scar. It glared at him from its place on his skin, daring him to think about it. He swallowed, a nagging buzz starting at the back of his mind. Then he felt Minho press a kiss to the top of his head, mumbling something into his hair before he relaxed into sleep. Newt blinked, caught off-guard by the little tingling in his stomach.
The buzzing in his mind calmed down.
-x-x-x-
Morning was a disorganized list: bed, footsteps, Belle, cheering, breakfast, sleepy trudging down halls, the smell of pancakes, Minho taking over, Newt's shower, finally.
Newt released a long sigh the moment he was under the hot, pounding water. It beat into his skin, beat the memories out of it. He shut the shower door and the bathroom beyond turned into a blur behind frosted glass. Inside were the little porcelain shelves built into the shower walls. Atop them, various things he'd grown used to seeing: a bar of soap, one bottle of body wash (that Minho used, and that was how he got himself to smell so much like mocha), shampoo, strawberry-scented because Belle liked it and Newt did too. He chose that first and let the pink liquid pool in his hand.
His lips curled upward by themselves as he worked it into his hair. He was really in need of a haircut soon. His bangs were getting too long and they flopped down into his eyes when he ran his fingers through them. "Ouch!" he hissed, as the lather stung his eyes. Turning his face into the water, he let the hot stream wash away the pain and then the remaining soap in his hair. White foamy rivulets snaked down along his neck to his collarbone. He watched as they slipped down over the M inked onto his chest, a brand he'd taken willingly.
It's almost like I don't have it, he thought absently, pushing the soap suds over it until it was hidden. It was he didn't belong anymore.
The buzzing was starting again. It swam in the corner of his mind, skated along the edges of his brain. It whispered and moved, breathed and growled.
Angel, don't worry, I'll be as gentle as I can. If you stopped moving so much, you might have fun, ever think of that?
Someone whimpered in the shower and it took him a moment to realize that it was him. Suddenly afraid, he glanced around at the enclosed space of steam and water. There wasn't anyone in there. Of course there wasn't. He was being stupid. Again. Trembling, he hugged himself, head bent under the wave of water droplets. The air was steamed, but he felt suddenly cold, suddenly too bare. Eyes were watching him from the shadowed corners. He knew those eyes, they followed him everywhere, green eyes, green like that streak in his hair and the smell of this sickness he planted inside of Newt. Newt shuddered, repressing the urge to claw at the walls or curl up into a ball. Oh god, I can't, I can't, I—
"Newt?"
Newt jumped with a too-loud gasp, blue eyes wide. He glanced wildly around until he saw the shower door cracked open and Minho peering in at him in question. He swallowed the bile in his throat. "W—what?"
"Sorry," Minho put in first, with a gesture at Newt's wet, soapy state. "But um, Belle said that she left her toy in here...?"
"Oh. Um." Glancing around, Newt glimpsed a red bouncy-ball in the corner. Annabelle often snuck it into the shower and liked to see if she could make it ricochet off of the walls. He picked it up and held it out between shaky fingers. "Here."
"Thanks." Minho took it, the side of his mouth tugged up.
Newt pieced together a smile in response. Then his lips parted in surprise as Minho's fingers came back, skimming up his arm and over his shoulder. They curled around the back of his neck and pulled him to the edge of the shower. Minho's head had been angled to the side and now he was kissing him, fleeting and sure. Newt's eyelids fluttered shut. He hooked cautious fingers into the neckline of Minho's T-shirt, aware of the drops soaking into the fabric. Minho sucked the water from his bottom lip, then moved to sweetly kiss the corner of his mouth. His smile was crooked when he pulled back. "Good morning."
Newt stood idiotically, half-in the shower, drenched and dripping onto the floor. "Morning," he stammered back, a real smile etching itself into his features.
Minho let go of him then and backed away, dark eyes slanting across Newt's body once. Newt thought he saw him bite his lip before he turned to go back to Belle.
Hand rising to his chest, Newt pushed the soap suds from his tattoo. Beneath his skin, he felt the racing of his pulse.
-x-x-x-
It reared its head again when he was rifling through his closet. Muttering about how he just needed a decent shirt, he raked through the hangers mindlessly. They had people coming over today, so he had to look at least a little nicer than usual. He'd almost reached the back when his fingers paused on an older shirt.
He stopped. He wished he hadn't let his memory make him stare at it. God, there was even a nick taken from the hem. It had probably happened when it'd been ripped off of him.
Irrational anger burned his insides. "What the hell?" he muttered, ripping the shirt off the hanger and onto the floor. His thoughts spun aimlessly and that buzzing lit up somewhere behind his eyes. Why didn't we throw that away? Does Minho think I want to keep it? What the hell's wrong with him? It was stupid annoyance, directed at someone it shouldn't have been directed at. But he felt it and he wanted to show off that shirt in outrage and demand why it was still here.
"Hey, Newt," Minho's voice greeted from behind him, a sudden and oblivious interruption. "Got this new shirt a couple days ago and figured it was nice enough for my family coming over. Think it's okay?"
The anger simmered and Newt turned sharply. "Why did y—?" His sentence was swallowed when his gaze landed on Minho, the finger he was pointing sinking down to his side. Minho still looked at him hopefully, hands stuck in the pockets of formfitting jeans. It was a new shirt, Newt could tell, long-sleeved and with a set of buttons at the V neckline. Newt stared at the wonderful contrast of pale fabric against olive skin. He looks good in cream.
"Newt?" Minho prompted. There was that tilt to his voice that meant he was getting worried.
Newt mentally shook himself, as though awakening from a dream again. "Sorry," he answered. "Uh. It looks nice. You look nice." It was a pitifully inadequate response to Minho's beauty wrapped up in a cream sweater, but Newt's brain was processing things strangely today. He was suddenly afraid that it wasn't enough and he hurried on, "I—I mean really nice." You are so stupid, stop talking before you hurt yourself.
Minho smiled, but cocked his head at Newt's odd tone. "Are you okay?" he asked, wandering over to Newt and running a hand down his arm. His skin broke into goosebumps. "You're acting a little funny."
"I'm fine," Newt forced out. His irritation at the shirt was subsiding, but after it came fear. Minho didn't need to know. It wasn't his problem. It was Newt's problem.
"You sure?" Minho's hand continued to rub up and down his arm, gradually chasing away the goosebumps with warmth. Thoughtless, he bent and touched a kiss to Newt's bare shoulder. It was both a comfort and a spike of heat, which only grew when he trailed his lips across Newt's skin before pulling back.
Newt held in his pleased hum at the contact. He didn't trust his own voice right now. "Yeah," he exhaled. "I'm fine. Just a little stressed with work." He almost grimaced. The lie curled itself atop his tongue.
"Really?" Minho's eyebrows rose. "I thought Sonya was pretty easy on you guys."
"Yeah, she is," Newt said quickly. "I'm just behind on some things I need to do..." He trailed away into a mumble, aware of every untruth sneaking out of his mouth.
But it had worked, because Minho's shoulders lost their hint of tension. "Okay. But you should relax today." He cupped Newt's jaw and ran his thumbs across his cheeks. Newt's eyes closed against his will, hands coming up to rest on Minho's wrists. "I don't like seeing you stressed out," Minho murmured, and pecked Newt's nose affectionately.
"Mmhm. I know." Newt nodded, lost in every glide of Minho's thumbs across his skin. Then Minho's fingers dropped away from him and he ached inside at the loss. "I'll try to relax," he said. "I promise."
-x-x-x-
It was hard to relax when the house was bustling with people. Newt's and Minho's parents had come over to visit, as had a few younger cousins who had been sleeping over at Minho's mother's house. They were rowdy boys of fourteen, exploring their new surroundings and calling out to each other. They were kids, so Newt tried not to be too bothered by it. He would've been doing the same thing, after all.
But this bad feeling still nipped at the edge of his consciousness and he was trying so hard to ignore it. He busied himself with dishes in the kitchen, stacking plates up to use later for dinner. A clatter of shoes told him when someone was behind him.
"Daddy?" It was a high tinkling question and Newt glanced down to see Annabelle's green eyes gazing up at him. She was unfairly adorable in a red-and-white checkered dress, red curls loose around her shoulders.
"What is it, sweetheart?" he asked, glad for a bit of a distraction, but not sure if he wanted her to leave. The buzzing in his head was increasing and he didn't want to be around her if it became unbearable for him.
Belle rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. "When will dinner be ready?"
"Soon."
"Okay. Is Gramma Newton gonna make that chicken I like?"
"I think so. She said she would."
"Awesome! I'm gonna go play now!" She beamed up at him, eyes sparkling, then darted away into the house. The echoes of the other kids' laughter rang out as she met them in some hallway, probably joining in on another game.
Newt watched her go, the faintest hint of a smile twitching his lips. But behind it sat the fear and the dark things, and he swallowed hard in hopes of getting rid of them. Why is all of this coming up now? He just wanted to move on, for God's sake.
But he knew that there really was no reason for his feelings. Ever since it, he'd had good days and bad days, some riddled with nightmares and some not. He would just have to spend more time getting used to it. In the meantime, he wasn't going to let anyone know; it was better that they didn't worry about him.
He'd put the last plate atop the stack on the counter, when suddenly, a pair of arms looped themselves around his waist. Newt jerked in irrational alarm at first, thoughts instantly shooting to Kyle. But then he felt a strong chest against his back and heard the familiar, low voice murmuring in his ear. "Hey, angel. What're you doing in here all alone?"
Taking a series of calming breaths, Newt told himself to relax. Eventually, he did, shoulders sinking back into the cradle of Minho's body. "Nothing," he answered with forced lightness. "Getting plates out." He shifted in Minho's arms, grateful for the embrace, but with a strange feeling crawling under his skin. It was one of the rare times when Newt would rather not be touched. "What're you doing?" he asked, hoping a change of subject would take his mind from it.
"I was watching the kids. Not exactly the most fun I've ever had, but they really like Belle." Minho nosed at the short hair on the nape of Newt's neck. "I missed you."
"Mm," Newt hummed in acknowledgement. He reached for the cupboard where the bowls were next, but halfway there, he felt Minho's hands sliding across his stomach. It was a familiar sensation, warm through his pale blue shirt, but the reaction was not normal. Newt tensed up. When Minho began pressing slow kisses to his neck, Newt did the worst thing he'd ever done in his life. He shouldered away from Minho, pushing out of his embrace to stand off to the side. "Minho, don't."
Minho stared at him, faint shock making his face blank. "...what?"
Shit, shit, shit. "I just—I—" How was he even supposed to explain this? His fingers gripped the edge of the counter. "I have to finish this and, um." He ran his hand over his hair. "I don't wanna be touched right now," he finished, in an ashamed mumble.
"What's wrong?" Minho asked.
Newt felt himself bristle in unwarranted defense. "Why're you assuming something's wrong?"
"You've never—" Minho stopped, perhaps sensing it was best not to push it. You've never not let me touch you. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he slid his hands awkwardly into his jeans pockets. He looked like a disappointed puppy. Normally, when Newt was feeling bad, Minho's comfort was gentle words and pulling Newt into his arms. Newt could tell it pained him not to do that now. "Never mind," Minho said at last. "You can do your thing here and uh, let me know if you need anything. Or if you wanna talk."
Guilt wracked Newt's consciousness. "Okay," he replied, and had to give him a soft smile. He felt like crap. Like absolute crap. Even Minho's answering smile couldn't lift his spirits. He sadly watched his husband walk away, cheerful when a family member said hi, but with a lingering sadness about him. Newt wanted to punch himself. He'd hurt Minho's feelings. Because of bloody Kyle, of all people.
The sudden onslaught of tears made him gasp and press the heels of his palms to his eyes. He was not going to cry, dammit. It was not going to get this bad. Shaking alone in the kitchen, Newt rubbed the wetness from his cheeks and told himself it was going to be fine.
He was getting very good at lying.