DISCLAIMER: All canon characters are property of James Dashner. The AU and the plot belong to me.

WARNINGS: Alternate Universe, some coarse language, ThoMinho, possible cliches and OOCness.

A/N: First fic for this fandom. The characters are based on my impressions from both movies and the first book, since I have yet to finish the second. Still, I was plenty inspired for this OTP and needed an outlet for my feels, so here I am, trying to put my own spin to AU tropes ^^

(An additional note: I don't know how many of my old readers clicked this as it's been a really long time since I've been on FFN, but if any of you are here, please do check the message/announcement I left on my profile concerning my old fics :) )

EVERYONE KNEW (before they did)

PART ONE: Rivals

Everyone knew Thomas and Minho were rivals even before they did.

In fact, everyone knew it before Thomas and Minho even knew each other.

It all began the day Thomas tried out for his new school's track team - or, as Chuck was quick to point out over Skype when they were chatting online later that night: the day Thomas finally sold out to his mother's wheedling that he should at least try to be a bit more social and hey, you were the star of your old school's track team, why don't you go for the try-outs?

(Thomas had rather vehemently insisted that it did not count as "selling out", but Chuck had insisted that since Thomas' abrupt change-of-heart on the whole antisocial thing came in the wake of his mother offering to buy him that latest iPhone - what number was it again? Thomas had lost count - it certainly did count as more or less of a sell-out.

Damn Chuck. Why did he love that kid again?)

In any case, with a shiny new iPhone - who cares what number it was - in his bag, gone for the try-outs Thomas had. He was a damn good runner and if he had to choose an extracurricular, then track and field it was.

The school's track team "Gladers" was widely renowned for producing tough and competitive athletes, which Thomas learned to respect as he watched the try-outs. The track members themselves looked highly athletic and strong, to the point of seeming intimidating, and they only picked the best from the rookies - or "Greenies", as they called them - trying out.

He was not that worried, though. He had enough confidence in his skills to know he would make good time, and even if he did not make the cut ... well, the only regretful thing he would have to put up with would be his mother's disappointment at her son's failure at a chance to "mingle".

'Alright, Murphy, you're up.'

Thomas felt the first fluttering of nervousness in his gut as he stepped forward for his turn at the 100-metre sprint. He had done this a thousand times before back in his old school, but nothing ever drowned out that quivering feeling of anticipation right before the run.

The whistle blew and he took off, his feet light on the ground and his nervousness whipped away in the wind blowing past him as he pushed himself to the limit. The adrenaline and excitement of running overpowered everything else as they always did, and he felt nothing but the blood rush and strain in his muscles, all other sights and sounds blurring to insignificance, until he crossed the finish line.

Flushed with success, he turned back with a wide grin that froze on his face when he saw the entire team gaping at him. The stare that the one lanky guy with long blond hair, who had been holding the stopwatch, was giving him was particularly unnerving.

Perhaps because it looked like he was suppressing a smile.

When Thomas finally walked back to the gaggle of teenagers, the blond boy loudly announced, 'Eleven point five-seven seconds.'

To Thomas' surprise, a few of the track members actually gasped out loud. They began to mutter to each other, low and quick, still stealing looks at him. Thomas could not tell whether it was excited muttering or angry muttering, but it did nothing to lessen the awkwardness he felt as he stood there, at a complete loss.

'Congratulations, Greenie,' drawled the blond guy in a British accent, openly smirking now. 'You just broke our top jock's record. My name's Newt and, on behalf of the team, welcome to the Gladers.'

Still struggling to compute what just happened and everyone's reaction, Thomas dazedly accepted Newt's brief handshake. He added rather unnecessarily, 'Hi, yeah, I'm Thomas,' which made Newt laugh and Thomas' face to heat up with mortification.

There was no time to argue that he was understandably a little out of sorts or to ask the actual questions on his mind, though. Next moment, Newt was barking at everyone to shut up and continue with the try-outs, prompting the other Greenies to step forward.

Thomas trudged back to the bleachers, trying to gather his thoughts as he edged past the other members, avoiding their eyes. And that was when he picked up some of the murmurs,

'- broke effin Minho's record, goddamn -'

'Who woulda thought a Greenie'd be the one to kick Minho's ass, eh?'

'- must be hella freezing in Hell right now, hah!'

'Reckon Minho's gonna challenge the Greenie - ?'

By the time Thomas got away from the whispers, there were only two things on his mind. The first was that he really, really disliked being called a "Greenie". He had a freaking name, thank you very much.

And secondly, who the hell was Minho and what was that strange feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach?

Thomas found the answer to his question the very next day.

More like, he literally ran into it. Or him.

Six days at W.C.K.D Glade High - which Thomas still found hard to believe was not named as a joke - had not familiarised him with the buildings enough to not get lost. That majorly sucked when, for one thing, you were running late for a class taken by a teacher who seemed out to get everyone and everything, and for another, when you prided yourself on having an eidetic memory (in your opinion). Getting lost was simply humiliating on a very personal level, when it came to that.

So, when Thomas finally found himself at a familiar location in Block A and realised, with mounting irritation, that he had been going in the opposite direction to his class all along, he made a run for it. Hoping against hope that he still had enough seconds to make it right before the bell rang, he put an extra burst of speed as he rounded a corner.

Thomas' first thought, somewhere between the first wave of shock and pain, was that he had made a wrong turn and ran into a wall or door.

But the door or wall he had run into had grunted with pain as well when Thomas practically bounced off it, and the door/wall apparently had arms because they shot out reflexively and grabbed Thomas by the waist right before he fell backwards onto his butt. Which would have been exponentially more humiliating - on a very public level - than being stupidly lost.

Thomas found himself pulled close against what he realised, as the shock and pain ebbed away, was a human being. As his vision and head cleared, he looked up to see whom he had nearly steamrollered and found himself almost nose-to-nose with an Asian guy with black hair and dark eyes so intense they nearly made Thomas recoil. The only thing that prevented him was the hands still gripping his waist.

Someone laughed loudly. 'When's the bloody wedding?'

Heat rushed to Thomas' face as he looked round to see Newt from the track team leaning against a row of lockers across from them, grinning broadly as if enjoying a show.

'Shut your hole, Newt.'

Thomas looked back as the guy he had nearly run over spoke up. Despite his words, there was no real anger in his voice and he seemed almost amused as he turned back to Thomas, crocking an eyebrow.

'You alright? Nearly killed us both, there.'

'Yeah, sorry about that, I was just -' Thomas trailed off as he belatedly realised that the guy had already let go of him, but Thomas was still holding tightly onto his upper arms. When had he grabbed the guy? He had not even realised doing it.

What he did realise though - and he could have kicked himself for it, what the hell - was that, underneath the long sleeves of the guy's blazer, his arms felt ... nice. Goddamn, what was wrong with him? Thomas quickly snatched his hands back and he could have sworn his would-be bulldozed victim looked even more amused.

He was about to say he was late and hurry on to class when Newt suddenly stepped forward.

'Anyway, it's a good thing you two ran into each other today -' he began, lips quirking.

The Asian rolled his eyes. 'Ah yes, I was wondering why I didn't miss you at all for the past week I was away. I've been back less than a day in your presence and I already feel like hopping a plane back to Korea.'

Wholly unfazed, Newt continued, 'This is Thomas Murphy, the one I was telling you about.'

Thomas was startled for all of three seconds until the other boy turned back to him, suddenly serious and unsmiling, and said lowly, 'Right. The Greenie.'

With a lurch in the pit of his stomach, Thomas suddenly realised exactly who was standing in front of him, right even as Newt said,

'And Thomas, this is our leader and captain of the Gladers, Minho Park.'

"Hostile" was not the word Thomas would use to describe the way Minho was looking at him, but it was not "friendly", either.

There was something aloof and calculating in his dark eyes that set Thomas on edge, bringing back to life that ball of dread he had felt in his stomach when he first heard everyone muttering about this Minho on the day of try-outs.

He was about to choose the path of courtesy and just go with, 'Nice to meet you, Minho,' when Newt lightly commented, 'The bloke's gonna be a great asset to the team, Minho. He took your best record and damn right broke it over his knee.'

From the way Minho's eyes darkened, Thomas could tell that Newt had not phrased that in the best possible way.

But then Minho was looking him square in the eyes as he said, 'Bring your best game to our next practice then, Greenie. Need to see for myself if you got the chops to be a runner, like everyone's been gushing about.'

Whatever intimidation Minho's stare had evoked in Thomas immediately vanished, replaced by defiance and a heightening anger. If the freaking captain of the track team begrudged him for simply breaking his glorious track record or whatever, then that was about the pettiest thing Thomas had heard of.

'I look forward to showing you my chops, then,' he almost snapped, narrowing his eyes. Immediately afterwards, Thomas realised that maybe he had crossed a line, considering he was a newbie and this was his team leader he was addressing.

Minho, however, did not show anger on his face. Instead, he took a step forward so that he was invading Thomas' space and said evenly in tones that raised the hairs on the latter's arms,

'You damn better, Greenie, or your butt will be out faster than you can cross a finish line.'

Thomas stared at him, his dislike for the guy cementing. 'Stop calling me a Greenie. I have a name.'

'And both of you stop being colossal idiots, we're all on the same team,' Newt interjected before Minho could reply, looking annoyed. 'This ain't a bloody contest amongst us.'

Without another word, Minho turned away from Thomas and walked off. Thomas glowered at his back.

'The hell's his problem?'

'Don't worry, Tommy,' said Newt airily, nudging him with his elbow. 'Minho's just a little unused to being bested. It'll be good for him to have you on the team.'

Thomas looked disbelievingly at the blond. 'How'd you figure that?'

Newt smiled. 'Everyone needs a little competition to put them on the right track,' he said ambiguously. 'Now, don't you have class, Tommy?'

'It's Thomas,' he replied distractedly, looking at his watch. He blanched. Class had begun minutes ago and he had not even realised that the bell had rung.

With a quick wave to Newt, he quickly ran off to his Advanced Calculus class. Six days at a new school were not enough to get away with bunking class just yet.

The day Thomas met Minho, he learned a couple of important things:

The line between standing up for yourself and antagonising your senior is extremely thin.

Life or fate or destiny or whatever fabric of the universe it is that guides your lives is a right bitch.

Because when Thomas turned up for that Advanced Calculus class he was embarrassingly late for (according to his standards), not only did he find a furious Mr Janson who prevented his entry inside the classroom, but there was another person joining him in getting yelled at in the hallway for their tardiness.

And Thomas wondered why, from all the life possibilities that could ever exist, the reality was that Advanced Calculus was apparently a class he shared with Minho Park.

If he had hoped that the only interaction they would be forced into was getting told off together by their rat-faced teacher, after which they could hopefully sit far away from each other in class - oh, Thomas had another reality slap awaiting his face.

Mr Janson paused, glaring down at the angry Minho and sullen-faced Thomas before giving an unpleasant smile.

'But, of course, my lecturing you on the importance of punctuality to my classes will only drift in through one ear and out through the other, won't it? Perhaps I can make you learn the lesson another way.'

Thomas and Minho looked at him in unison. Thomas felt an uneasy wrench at his gut.

'Detention. Both of you together. Next week Monday, right after school.'

Thomas almost groaned out loud. Damn it, he should have just bunked.

~tbc~

A/N: The second chapter will be uploaded tomorrow. In the meantime, let me know your thoughts? :)