Minho lays still. He hears the rise and fall of Newt's breath behind him, but he knows he's awake. His hand curls over his pillowcase, closing his eyes tightly, distracting him from the window he's been gazing at for over an hour.
"Can you… Can you just get over here? I sleep better when you're closer." He mumbles finally, and he's not even sure the words have left his mouth. There's a pregnant pause, and Minho's sure it happened in his head, and then a warm arm snakes around his waist.
He holds back a sigh of relief, melting against Newt's chest, the other boys' breath tickling the back of his neck. Minho carefully moves to rest his arm over Newt's, and he allows himself to press against him further.
"Is this alright?" Newt murmurs, his lips inches away from his skin, and Minho holds back an involuntary shiver.
"Yeah." He says in return. It's not.
It hurts more to know that he's holding Minho for all the wrong reasons, and they'll never embrace each other for the right ones.
x-x-x
"Newt?" Minho asks over the phone, his hands shaking and fumbling to keep it to his ear, his words slurred slightly.
"Yes, Min?" Newt had picked up at the second ring. He's thankful for a best friend like Newt now, even if that's all they'll ever be.
"Come. Please." He rasps, his throat dry, slumping against his bed once his knees knock against it. He looks awful, but the Brit has seen him at his absolute worst.
"I'm coming over." Is all he replies.
Minho drifts off to sleep, only stirring once he feels a depression in the bed next to him. He turns, his bangs in his face, looking blearily up at Newt, his vision still swimming.
Newt has a tight frown, reaching out on instinct to push his hair away from his face, gently caressing his cheek for a moment.
"Bad date?" He asks.
Minho nods, before clapping a hand up to his forehead with a wince.
Newt picks up a glass of water from his bedside, nudging his arm and pushing the cup into his hands once he's propped up. He drinks slowly, already feeling less parched, before dropping his head back in his lap. He's hungover, he'll have an excuse.
"Thomas broke up with me." He manages quietly.
Newt's small intake of breath is nearly inaudible, and his fingers slide into Minho's hair easily. "Oh."
He doesn't apologize. Minho's appreciative.
That night, he mumbles hazy details of his relationship with the boy. He falls asleep facing Newt, his hand on his hip, a nice change for the both of them.
x-x-x
"So, I see you've gotten back on the market quickly." Ben quips, and Minho looks up from polishing his football helmet.
"The hell do you mean?" He asks, glaring at his friend, twisting the rag along the top of the cap.
"Not even a couple weeks and you've already gotten with Newt?" Ben doesn't mean it harshly, but Minho flinches.
"Shut up."
"What?"
"I said, shut up, Ben. We're not dating."
Silence.
Minho gets up to leave, his helmet clattering to the floor, not even bothering to stoop to pick it up.
x-x-x
"Hey, Min. You forgot this today after practice." Newt says, ducking in through Minho's window, five o'clock, just like always. He holds his abandoned helmet in his hands, messing with it and tossing it upwards a couple times.
The Asian sits up on his bed, lazily shucking his phone to the side and leaning on one elbow to look at Newt.
"Thanks." He manages, all moodiness forgotten as Newt tosses the helmet to Minho, laughing when it hits him in the chest and crawling into bed with him.
x-x-x
Newt fiddles with the covers of Minho's duvet, facing him, his eyes averted. He hasn't talked for minutes, so Minho gets the message and reaches over to take his hand tentatively.
Newt's gaze switches to their hands, intertwining their fingers without a second thought and glancing back up at him. "I got asked out."
"By who?" Minho asks immediately. He glowers slightly, and Newt gives his hand a comforting squeeze, looking uneasy almost.
"Winston."
Minho wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Are you going to…?"
"Yeah." Newt cuts him off, taking his other hand and messing idly with their fingers: comparing the size of their hands, brushing his thumb across his knuckles, then swinging them slightly.
"Do you want to go out with him?"
Newt shrugs.
"I'm happy for you."
"No, you're not."
"No, I'm not."
Newt gets over it quickly.
x-x-x
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Relax, Isaac, I suggested this, got it?" Truth.
"Right… Yeah."
"Calm down, you're holding my waist too tightly. This is just practice kissing, nothing special." Lie.
"Your hands are shaking."
"At least they aren't going to leave bruises." Truth. Though he wouldn't mind marking Newt, under different circumstances.
"Min, can you just kiss me already?"
"Well, aren't you eager?" Lie. He's the excited one.
Their lips brush against each other, tentatively, shyly, and Minho wants to pull away. He feels like he's been kicked in the stomach, this is just as dishonest as his words, but Newt's lips finally move against his.
His brain goes into autopilot; turning his head to the side, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. Fingers pushing through golden colored hair, the taste of honey on his lips. Pushing Newt gently onto his back, small, content noises in the back of his throat when Newt's hands clasp his shirt.
He doesn't remember pulling away, but Newt mumbles a quiet "Min," his lips cherry red, and he sits back, keeping a safe distance from him.
His thoughts are fuzzy, filled with static, his fingertips tingling as if he could still feel the mess of long hair slipping through his hands like silk.
"Winston's lucky."
"Thomas was, too."
x-x-x
They lay on Minho's bed, side by side, shoulders touching and breathing in sync with each other, moonlight showering over them.
"It didn't work out. Between me and Winston." Newt murmurs finally, breaking the tranquility.
More quiet.
"Stop smiling."
"I'm not."
"I can literally see you grinning right now. Stop that."
"I'm not, loser."
Newt shakes his head, and when Minho looks at him out of his peripheral vision, he sees the corners of his mouth turned upwards.
"Why didn't it work?"
"I didn't go to him."
"What?"
"Our date. I didn't show up. I came here instead."
"To… To lay in complete silence with me until I asked nosey questions."
"Exactly."
"C'mon, Newt. Tell me the real reason."
"I didn't want to be with him. Not after… Not after…"
Minho turns his head to the side, and Newt keeps staring up at the ceiling. "After we kissed?"
"Before that."
The Asian bites his lip, lost in thought.
"I'm not so sure I wanted to be with Thomas, either."
"Who would?"
"Gally."
Minho hums, his mind still reeling.
"So, you're not going back to him?" He clarifies.
"No."
"Are you going to stay?"
"For as long as I'm able."
Newt's fingers brush against Minho's, catching his hand, shifting slightly so that he can gaze back at the Asian.
"This entire time I've been waiting and—"
"It was before that, when I fell for you. Way before that."
"Ever since—"
"Before what you're thinking of. It's been forever."
Newt looks lost in thought, furrowing his eyebrows, before rolling over to straddle Minho's lap. He hates to admit that he freezes, unaware of what he's going to do, before Newt lays his head down on Minho's chest. By the steady rise and fall of his stomach against Minho's, he knows Newt's out like a light.
Whatever they are, it's a start. Minho's been waiting for this for a very long time.