What Happens in the Map Room...
The Map Room was the most likely place in the Glade to find a Runner. This was pretty much true for every time of the day. Even awful, obnoxiously late hours of the night. Which was exactly when Minho found Newt, passed out cold on a table. It was the first thing he saw when he walked through the door and he had to cover his mouth to stifle a snort of laughter. Oh God. This is too great.
It had been a long, relatively sucky day in the Maze. It was the height of summer, the temperatures soaring and making the Runners' lives into Hell. Minho knew it was eating away at the other Runners every minute, but he hadn't seen the toll it was taking on Newt until now. Newt hid it well during the day, but well, when you fall asleep on a table, it gets pretty obvious to others how much you were suffering.
Right now, Newt was slumped forward on the table, his arms folded carelessly around his head. There were sheets of paper spread out around him, all of them scrawled across with drawings and numbers. Minho found it hilarious that the hardworking, no-nonsense, keep-working-and-don't-complain Runner was out cold in the Map Room. So he watched Newt sleep for a few moments. And eventually, he went from watching to all-out staring.
Newt's blonde hair was delightfully ruffled, falling down across his eyes. One side of his loose, cream-colored hoodie had slipped off his shoulder, showing off the strength of one, muscled arm. His sun-kissed skin was smooth and soft-looking. Minho became strangely enraptured with the way Newt's back rose and fell as he slept, the serenity in his flawless face. He even noticed the lovely, sweeping curve of Newt's eyelashes. Newt was, well, kinda stunning. Minho shuffled his feet awkwardly. In a completely non-romantic way.
Minho shook his head, hoping to clear it of all thoughts of Newt, and went to turn away. That was when Newt shifted in his sleep, letting out a tiny, soft sound, and gave a little shiver. Minho didn't know what to even do in that moment. He looked first at Newt, then at the door, then at Newt again. He fingered the sleeve of his navy jacket. It was getting colder at night...
Finally, with a little growl at his own softness, he shrugged out of his jacket. This left him in only a black tank top, and he inwardly admitted that it was kinda cold, but he refused to shiver even though no one was around to see. Then, a bit awkwardly, he draped his jacket over Newt's shoulders. Of course, the hood flopped down over Newt's head. But there was no way he was gonna try and take it off; what if he woke Newt up? He was already moving again in his sleep, letting out a little sigh that made Minho freeze, thinking that he might wake up. Then Newt mumbled sleepily through his dreams, "Minho..."
Minho couldn't move. And he couldn't stop the unexpected blossom of warmth that filled his chest to the brim. He had to fight a goofy smile. Newt was dreaming about him. About him, and not any of those other Runners or Gladers, or even Alby, who had grown close to Newt since finding him in the Box. For some reason, this made Minho very happy.
I have to be losing my mind. So he dreams about me, big deal. It's not like I dream about him. I never dream about him. I just think about him, constantly, and worry about him, and give him my jacket when he's cold, and almost die every time he talks with that accent, and find excuses to touch him... He groaned to himself and rubbed a hand over his face. Damn. He'd better leave before he did something stupid. He turned away, for good this time. The night air blasted his senses even more when he opened the door. He did shiver that time, unable to hold it back. That was when a voice spoke from behind him.
"Thanks." The voice was low and muffled with sleep.
Minho looked over his shoulder to see Newt sitting up, dark blue eyes foggy, the hood of Minho's jacket only covering half of his head; a shock of honey-gold hair flopped out from underneath. Minho swallowed. "For what?" he asked, playing dumb.
"For the jacket, you bloody moron," Newt answered, still sounding like he was dragging himself from a dream. The huskiness of his voice did wonders with his accent, making everything he said radiate sexiness.
"You're welcome, shank," Minho replied with a smirk. "It's a bad idea to fall asleep in the Map Room, you know. The other Runners would probably play some prank on you if they found you."
"Good thing you found me then," Newt yawned. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, trying to drag the tiredness out of him.
Minho studied him carefully. "So, uh, what were you dreaming about?" he asked, hoping it sounded casual enough.
"Dunno," Newt replied, uncaring. "Don't remember. Why?"
"You talk in your sleep."
Newt grimaced. "Shit. What'd I say?" He seemed amused more than anything else.
Minho looked away, down at the floor. "You said my name."
Newt stiffened. His eyes widened and a nervous laugh escaped him. "I...uh...I didn't mean..."
Minho didn't know why he did it, but he did; he crossed the room and bent to touch a kiss to Newt's forehead. When he drew back, Newt was gaping at him in astonishment, an adorable blush rising in his cheeks. "M—Minho," he stammered. "Why did you...?"
Minho rolled his eyes. "Because I like you, you dumb shank."
Newt gawked at him for a few seconds more. "You like me?"
"Don't rub it in," Minho grumbled.
Newt's shocked face shifted into a smirk then, eyes glimmering playfully. "You like me," he repeated, knowingly now.
"So what? You don't like me?"
"Nah, I guess I like you." Newt shrugged indifferently. But he was... Was he leaning closer?
"Yeah, but I like you, like you," Minho pointed out, finding that he was drawing closer too.
"Well, I love you, like you," Newt murmured, snagging the front of Minho's shirt in his fist and hauling the other boy's mouth down to his.
The kiss opened like a blooming rose, slow and beautiful, languorous and passionate. Minho pushed the hood from Newt's head so that he could run his fingers through soft blonde hair. Newt sighed into his mouth, his fingertips on Minho's neck, all gentleness. Minho was sick of gentleness. Everything was much too slow. He wasn't breakable. He curled his fingers around locks of Newt's hair and tugged lightly, running his tongue along Newt's bottom lip as he did. Newt whimpered, and Minho felt the hand on his neck drop to his chest; it slipped farther down to his stomach, and he had a sudden longing for there to be no clothing barrier between them.
He kissed Newt harder, nipping his lips and turning the blonde into a lovely, panting mess. Newt growled sexily, and shoved Minho's shirt up to reveal powerful, toned abs. "God, take it off," he gasped.
Minho reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off in one motion. He grinned roguishly. "What, you like what you see?" he asked devilishly.
"Shut your freakin' mouth," Newt replied. He stood up then, pushing Minho back against the table. His hands slid over the Keeper's abdomen, up his chest, along his broad shoulders. Minho shuddered at the sensation, biting his lip to stop a moan. Then Newt kissed his shoulder, marking a fiery path up the side of Minho's neck. Minho groaned then, pleasure sending tingling sparks across his skin. Blind with want, he reached behind him and swept the papers off the table. Then he grabbed Newt by the hips and dragged him forward, until he was lying back on the table with Newt on top of him.
"Tell me again," Minho breathed, holding Newt against him, feeling the warmth of their bodies pressed together like a drug in his veins. "Tell me you love me."
Newt braced his hands on either side of Minho's head, bending down to pull his earlobe into his mouth, earning another low moan from the Keeper. "I love you," he whispered.
Newt's tongue flicked his ear, and Minho arched up, his body begging for more. "God, Newt," he gasped out. "I need—"
He broke off as the door suddenly swung open. "What—WHAT THE SHUCK?" It was Alby. Of course it was Alby.
Newt threw himself off of Minho so fast, he almost crashed into the wall and Minho scrambled into a sitting position, feet dangling over the side of the table. They might've been able to pretend it was an accident...if Minho wasn't shirtless. They stared at Alby and tried to think of something they could say.
Alby shook his head. "Man, I always knew you two were hot for each other, but Jesus," he remarked, amusement in his voice. "I did NOT need to see that."
Newt's eyes were round. "What d'you mean? How'd you know?"
"It was easy," Alby replied, rolling his eyes. "Minho smiles like a complete MORON when you talk with the accent and all, and you kinda talk in your sleep."
"Dammit," Newt and Minho both muttered.
"Yeah," Alby answered simply. "Anyway, I came in to check some maps, but obviously that was a bad idea. So I'm leaving to wash my eyes out. Don't get loud or Chuck'll be in here to see what's going on, and you do not want that." He grimaced at the mental image that brought and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Newt looked at Minho and raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "That happened."
Minho just laughed, suddenly giddy with the whole beautiful thing. "C'mere," he said, reaching out to pull at Newt's sleeve.
"Why?" Newt asked, but he was already stepping between Minho's knees, his hands on the table on either side of Minho, pressing their foreheads together.
Minho grinned, stroking Newt's cheek and listening reverently to the blonde's soft purr of pleasure. "We have to finish what we started."