Before Thomas opened his eyes, he knew he was hurt. As he stirred from his sleep, he became aware of every throb, ache and sting. His bruised jaw sang when he yawned, his swollen ankle pulsed when he stretched but the worst was the broken fingers that screamed at him with every single movement. For a minute he wondered why he felt like this, why his bunk felt so uncomfortable? Then he peeled his eyes open and recognised the grey cave wall and the night before came racing back.

If his head hadn't hurt before, bouncing it off the ceiling certainly didn't help.

Despite it all, he paused when he felt movement by his side. The warmth of another body curled up against his own: Minho. It was still dark in the cave, but enough daylight streamed beneath the vines to light the edge of his face. Not once in the months they'd be living together had Thomas woke first; no matter how early, Minho always seemed to be up and dressed before Thomas could bat an eye.

This image of his still and peaceful face was surprising enough to warrant a moment of stolen appreciation.

But then he took in the blood-soaked bandage across his temple, the dirt coating their still exposed chests; the stench of dried griever blood still clung to them both so strongly it made Thomas wonder how either had been able to sleep so close together at all. How had Minho been able to stand touching him, kissing him…

The memory surfaced. The heat of their bodies, the taste of his breath, the urgency in their touch. What had happened – How had that happened? What had changed?

Too many questions and his head hurt too much to even begin answering them.

Although he did know they needed to move. He shifted his weight, disturbing the boy at his side. "Minho…" He whispered, voice hoarse.

Minho blinked and shot upright, focused on the cave entrance as if expecting an attack.

"You're alright," Thomas reassured him, squeezing his hand absent-mindedly, "But we need to go."

Minho frowned, "It's morning?"

"Looks more like noon," Thomas answered.

Minho left his side and reached for his shirt. Thomas couldn't help but be sad at the sight of Minho' disappearing body but copied anyway and dressed.

"We slept through the doors?" Minho asked.

"I guess…" Thomas considered it. From where the cave was located, the rumbling of the Glade doors ought to have woken them and yet it hadn't?

Minho began packing equipment and resources into his bag and handed Thomas one to do the same. One strapped up, Thomas parted the vines and poked his head through. The high noon sun blinded him and yet the warmth of it beckoned him forward. With his pulled muscle and sprained ankle, standing proved to be a difficult task. Forcing himself upright caused stars to dance across his vision.

Minho must have noticed because he took the bag from him and ducked under his arm, guiding him forward.

"I'm fine," Thomas said, "It's not like you're in any fine condition."

"Didn't hear any complaints last night," Minho mumbled and Thomas paused, lost for words. His cheeks burned with colour.

The way he had looked at Minho's body – touched it. "Minho…" Thomas began but Minho hauled them forward.

"C'mon, we gotta get back."

Thomas shut up and carried on walking, somewhat thankful for the dismissal of the conversation. A clear statement to say, 'We can talk about this later,'

But as they moved, another comment came to mind and Thomas huffed a laugh.

"What…" Minho asked cautiously.

"Second time this week you've carried me. This gonna be a regular thing or what?"

Minho scoffed, "You wish, Greenie. C'mon."

They set off limping.

The cave wall had moved in the night, explaining why it had been difficult to locate the night before and why the opening of the Glade doors hadn't disturbed them; they were nowhere near them. It became apparent when, after an hour, they had no clue where they were going. It took another two hours before Thomas spotted a marker and Minho lead the way home.

Although they had slept and eaten and between the two of them finished off three canteens of water, their injuries only seemed to worsen with each passing minute. As if their bodies knew that the closer, they got to the safety and security of the Glade, the less they needed to work to survive. Minho, who had half-carried Thomas back, began wincing and groaning with every breath.

Thomas almost suggested another break when at last they turned another corner and saw the wide-open doors of the Glade ahead. Blue skies and green fields beckoned them home. Thomas had half-expected a crowd to be waiting to help them as there had been the first time the two had returned from a night in a maze but as they neared, only the Watcher remained.

Chuck.

He sat on a stool by the doors with his head down, crying into his shirt. As someone whose role it was to guard these doors for any approaching griever, Chuck was failing spectacularly. He only looked up when Minho and Thomas dumped their bags at his feet.

"Chuck," Minho breathed in greeting.

"Thomas, Minho!" He screamed and bounced to his feet, "You're back!"

Minho threw up a hand, "Chuck, do me a favour and blow your whistle."

However, Chuck had thrown himself at Thomas the three boys went down. Thomas bit his lip to stop from crying out or swinging at Chuck when a jolt of pain shot through his left leg. "I-We all thought you were dead! The doors opened and you weren't there and we thought you were dead! And-" Chuck paused and withdrew, frowning, "You stink, Thomas,"

"Thanks…" Thomas breathed. His head felt light and loose.

"Chuck. Hey,- Chuck?" Minho sighed.

"Yeah?" Chuck wept.

"Blow the damn whistle."

Chuck's eyes widened and he placed the whistle between his lips and blew twice. Once for shift change, twice for help, three times for Griever attack: Run. Thomas fought through his blurring vision to the Glade, where shadowed figures of boys began racing towards them.

"We made it again, eh?" Thomas tried to laugh at Minho, but one look and that joy vanished. Minho's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped to the ground, "Minho!" Thomas bellowed, throwing himself forward and surely tearing open his leg.

He shook him, repeated his name and yet Minho remained limp. Before Thomas could try anything else he was knocked aside by the other Gladers who quickly hauled Minho into their arms and, at Alby's command, set off towards the Medbay.

Thomas tried to rise to follow, to be with him but was blocked off by the Gladers. He was surrounded, bombarded with questions and faces; Gally shoved at his shoulder and Billy demanded to know where Karl was.

Thomas could have answered, could have explained if only they had stepped back, given him some room, some air, maybe some water but before Thomas could muster a syllable the world spun in blotches of colour, he lost all sense of direction and the moment his head hit a pillow he was gone.

He woke to his covers being withdrawn and cool air tickling his near-naked body but warmth settled in as someone slid into bed beside him.

"It's me," Minho whispered. His breath hot against his ear.

Knowing Minho was here, awake, alright, Thomas tried to rise but felt a firm hand hold him down then curl around his waist to pull him in close. "Shh, it's okay. Just rest." Minho breathed and with him here, Thomas did.

He was alone, of course, when he woke hours later. By the time he found the strength to sit up the Medbay was dark and empty. No daylight shone through the cracks in the walls which meant he'd slept through the entire day; and if he hadn't realised Minho's absence, he probably would have slept much longer.

He downed the mug of stale water on the bedside stool and threw back the covers, shivering in the chill air. The lantern in the corner lit the space enough to examine his own body, the cuts and bruises were nothing knew yet his right hand was taped in a fresh bandage and his left ankle cushioned in cool padding. He was right too in that someone – Minho, hopefully – had undressed him and disposed of his ruined filthy clothes.

"Hello?" He asked. Usually one of the med-jacks remained when there was a patient to make sure their condition didn't worsen but no one replied. Thomas spotted a pile of folded clothes by the door and limped his way over. The underwear, shirt and trousers were fine but getting his foot into those boots was near impossible. He knew sprains, knew that like his thigh a day or so of rest and proper stretching would heal it up. His fingers, he knew, would probably take much longer.

He exited the building, noting how the day had given way to the heavy blue of dusk. Dark clouds in the distance made the promise of rain but his attention quickly followed a dying smoke trail to the Pit, around which several snoring shadows lay. One of which used a fiery red mane as his pillow.

"Psst…Fritz." Thomas nudged the novice with his good boot.

It took a few tries but eventually, Fritz rolled over, cursing and swearing so fast his accent became unintelligible. "Oh." He said, noting Thomas. "Eyup. Alright? Heard ye had a rough one."

"I'm okay," Thomas shrugged, "Hey, where is everyone? Why are you all in bed?" It was only just dark and yet from the looks of it, the Glade had shut down. Some boys went straight to bed after work yet most retreated here, to the pit, for drinks and food and games.

"Alby cut us off. No games tonight in honour of Karl. Funeral tomorrow."

Karl. So the Gladers knew. Minho must have updated everyone when he'd woke from the Medbay. "Wait…funeral?"

"Ye, couple of lads went with Billy to get his body. Minho told them where it was." Thomas couldn't believe it had been allowed and yet also felt glad. Karl deserved a proper burial. "Council's still up though, havin a Gatherin."

"A Gathering? What about?" Thomas asked and Fritz shrugged, settling back down to rest.

"Dunno, you're a Keeper aren't ye? Go find out."

Technically not a keeper anymore and yet, Thomas headed for Homestead. The largest and busiest building in the Glade on an ordinary day and yet as he neared, the voices booming from within were the loudest Thomas had ever heard. He moved as quickly as his ankle would allow through the foyer, peeking into the crowded council room. It was too easy to slip inside and watch from the shadows.

Eleven keepers sat at their makeshift stools, yelling and pointing accusations at one another across the circular space. In the centre, a wooden chair for interrogations had been placed; Thomas himself had sat in it twice when he broke the rules to save Alby and Minho, then again when the Council appointed him Keeper of the Hunters.

In truth, there should have been a Gathering to strip him of that title and yet he was glad Alby had spared him that embarrassment – though soon enough he knew he would find himself back in that chair, under scrutiny for once again daring to enter the Maze at night.

Today the chair was occupied not by a Glader but instead, an object. A device the length of his forearm but twice as thick and round; copper wires and joints poked out of either side as if torn from something. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling reflected orange light in the glass control panel, on which the number 7 blinked along with a rapid beep.

As he narrowed his gaze, he read the letters engraved into the side. WICKED. The letters that came on their supplies.

Thomas realised this was the device Karl had stolen from the grievers and ditched by the entrance of the Glade for the boys to find.

"Didn't you hear what Minho said?" Frypan argued over the chaos. The sound of Minho's name pulling Thomas into the conversation. "The grievers came back for it. They tried to take it with them. Whatever it is, it's important!"

He sat as Zart stood. "But it's beeping! You know what else beeps? Bombs!"

Winston stepped before them and threw up his hands, "Bombs? You think WICKEDare putting bombs in their grievers just hoping we'll steal one and blow ourselves up? Do you hear yourself? Alby, we need a new Keeper because this Slint-Head is one stupid mother-"

"Slim it!" Alby roared, bouncing to his feet.

The others sat.

"We have been at this for hours and we've achieved nothing because all you lot can do is yell at each other."

"Can you blame us, Alby?" Gally piped up, rising to confront him. "No one is taking this seriously. Who the fuck cares what it is? If what Minho said is true then the grievers know how to track this thing, they knew how to find it the first time. We're lucky we made it through today but what's stopping them from tracking it here tomorrow and killing us all just to get to it?"

Several of the Keepers cheered in agreement. Alby looked as if he wanted to argue but couldn't.

"I had an idea." Minho stepped forward from the shadows across the room and Minho looked great. A day of rest and sleep – and probably some decent food – had done him the world of good. His clean skin glowed golden in the lamplight, not a speck of dirt in his black feathery hair. Bright white bandages much like his own wrapped tightly around his arm. A far cry from the man that had collapsed at his feet this morning.

Minho paced as he spoke. "Ever since Thomas killed the first griever and we decided to form the Hunting sector, things started to change, right? Sections opening that aren't supposed to open, walls moving that never have before, random Greenie's appearing at any time of the month, Grievers showing up during the day, yet they never come close to us. All of it, new and weird."

"So what?" Newt asked. He too looked as if he'd had a rough couple of days, yet curiosity shone in his eyes.

"So, we passed all that off as random or a result of the hunting, but we kept at it because less Grievers meant more of a chance of survival for the Runners, which meant more of a chance of finding a way outta here." He stopped and picked up the beeping device and stared at it, "But I think we were wrong. I think these are why things changed."

"What do you mean?" Alby questioned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Minho resumed his pacing, "I bet my life on it that every grievers got one. For whatever reason, these things are important to them, important enough that a group of those Klunk's went on a mission to retrieve one for WICKED. Important enough for WICKED to open up the maze and let them out during the day."

"That's why they don't come to the Glade in the day…" Newt breathed, the realisation dawning on him at the same time it did Thomas, "In the day, it's not their job to hunt it. It's their job to retrieve these from all the Griever's we're killing."

"Exactly," Minho slumped into the interrogation chair and flipped the device back and forth in his hand.

"That still leaves the question of what we do with it now?" Gally mumbled, head in hands.

Before anyone could contribute, footsteps echoed down the hall and Jeff burst into the room, panting and clutching his chest as if he'd been sprinting. "Thomas!" He gasped, "Thomas is…here." Thomas had lifted a hand, drawing the attention of the entire council.

"Slint-head," Jeff cursed, collapsing into the nearest chair and gulping from his canteen.

"Thomas," Minho chimed from across the room, but it was Newt who met him first, guiding him along to his usual chair.

"How're you feeling, bud?"

"Fine," Thomas lied. He ached and wanted to be back in that warm bed with Minho, yet smiled at the Keepers anyway, "But go on. What are we gonna do? I hate to say it but Gally's right. They could track that thing straight to us and slaughter us all to get to it."

Gally seemed taken back by the support.

"Well, I have got an idea." He said, biting his nails as he surveyed Alby. "But you're not gonna like it."

All eyes turned to their leader. All silent in waiting. Alby inspected their faces, the anticipation smeared across them until finally he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, "I don't like anything you shuck's gotta say, but let me hear it."

Thomas and Alby followed Minho, Newt and the rest of the Council from the Homestead building. "We'll meet in the Deadheads in an hour." Alby reconfirmed and the Keepers nodded, branching off in the direction of their respective sectors to wake the boys of the Glade. Not an early night after all. A night of action.

Somewhere in the distance, Thomas could hear Fritz cursing whichever poor soul had dared to wake him again.

"This is risky. So many lives could be lost and those of us that aren't killed are left alone." Alby mumbled, following boy after boy as they moved.

Thomas looked up to Alby and noted the way his deep brow furrowed, and perfectly white teeth clamped down on his lower lip. "Alby…" Thomas started, "This is your call. If you aren't comfortable…"

"It doesn't matter if I'm comfortable or not," Alby replied shortly, then sighed and changed his tone. "I mean…one way or other things are changing. I just hope for the better. I don't want to give these boys hope if it ends with you all dead."

Something similar to what he'd said when he'd disbanded Thomas's sector.

Now, he was reinstating it.

"If it's any consolation, it's just reconnaissance. If things go right, none of us should even be seen by a griever."

Alby angled his head and arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitched up. "When do things ever go right."

Thomas couldn't help but smile, "Good that."

Alby placed a firm hand on Thomas's shoulder. "Just…make sure those boys know the risk they're taking and choose to take it."

"They'll choose it." Thomas bet. "They're like me. They've been waiting for this change. This chance."

Alby shook his head and headed towards Homestead, "Well now you've got it, Thomas. Don't fuck it up."

It was midnight by the time they'd woke every Glader and instructed them to head into the Deadheads for Karl's funeral. Some of the boys had complained, had wondered why this time instead of tomorrow when it had originally been arranged but, upon hearing about the device and the plan, settled the argument and followed along.

Karl was to be buried deep into the Deadheads in the same spot the rest of their dead – the ones they were able to retrieve – were buried. The Gladers circled the six-foot deep hole in the ground and watched in silence as Alby, Billy and Karl's other closest friends shoved the soul atop his bound-up body.

Newt stepped forward, addressing the Glade as a whole. "Because of Karl and the risk he took to get this," He lifted the device into the air, "Our Runners and Hunters now have a chance to follow the Grievers back to where they come from. Because of Karl, we have a chance to finally figure out who WICKED are and why they put us in here. Because of Karl, we have hope."

And they did. When the doors opened at dawn, there would be no risk of Grievers tracking the device to the Glade as every Runner and Hunter they had would set off into the maze to ditch the device and lie in wait for a Griever to pick it up. From there, they could follow it back to its hole and maybe learn the truth.

"To Karl!" Frypan called, raising the lantern at the end of his spear.

"To Karl!" The Gladers echoed, raising lanterns and spears of their own. A moment of silence followed in which Thomas surveyed the mourning Gladers. Archie, a runner who had almost gone with Minho before Karl had offered his place. Billy, Karl's best friend in the entire world who cried silently as he poured Frypan's homemade booze into the hole. Fritz, who frowned disappointedly at the booze as it soaked into the earth. Leo stood across from them, an arm draped comfortingly around Nik. Nik, who had completely blanked Thomas when he'd tried to speak to him an hour ago. Thomas wasn't sure what had happened to Nik during his Changing but whatever it was, it had changed his feelings towards Thomas entirely.

But Thomas didn't care about that now. Couldn't care about that now. After tonight, everything changed.

When the funeral was over the crowd collectively returned to the Glade. The Hunters and Runners were to pack their things – weapons, clothes, food, water, medical supplies – anything they would need for at least a couple of days away if things went right. Newt and Alby were to oversee the preparations whilst Minho and Thomas, the respective Keepers of their mission, were ordered back to bed, considering both had enough injuries to warrant an entire week off running.

But by the time Thomas and Minho walked along the sandy path to their shack, Thomas knew he wouldn't sleep.

It felt like ages since they'd been home and yet it had been barely a day. Once indoors, he took a minute to appreciate the familiar dark walls and unmade bunks whilst Minho made to light the pit in the centre of the room. By the time the flames were going, both boys had kicked off their boots sat on their bunks, staring at one another.

Minho began unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes occasionally lifting to find Thomas watching. This time, Thomas did not look away.

"Minho…about what happened in the cave."

"It was amazing, right?" Minho interrupted. Thomas spluttered. "I mean, it was only a kiss but it was one amazing kiss. Not that I've anything to compare it to, but still." When Thomas faltered with a reply, Minho looked up. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it. I know you enjoyed it."

"No, I did. It was amazing." Thomas finally got out. A relief lifted from his chest, "But…"

"But?" Minho paused halfway down his buttons, leaving his midriff exposed and Thomas couldn't help but stare. What was it about Minho's body that made him obsess with it the way he did? The fold of his stomach, the angles of his collar bones? Or the small tuft of black chest hair in the centre of his otherwise smooth chest. It was all so beautiful. "But?" Minho echoed.

When Thomas again struggled for words, Minho dropped his head. "It doesn't have to mean anything, Thomas. We can just forget it."

At that, Thomas's eyes widened. "What! No! I…I don't want to forget it." Minho looked up again, meeting his gaze. Thomas leaned forward on his bunk and Minho mimicked the action. Thomas inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of Minho and their room and everything he held dear. "I want it to mean something." He said at last.

Minho broke a smile and rose to cross the space between them, dropping to Thomas's side. "It can mean everything," He sighed. From here, Thomas was victim to all that was Minho's stare. The light behind those dark eyes. He had always thought Minho to be beautiful in an obvious way but reflecting, he remembered times when he'd caught himself admiring Minho's lips or his jaw or smiling at his laugh and his touch – and he had never really known why. It hadn't been until the cave when Minho had leaned into him that Thomas had even realised that he wanted more.

Minho's hand came up and he cupped Thomas's cheek as he said, "It can mean everything."

And he kissed him. Instantly, Minho's soft, dry, warm lips pressed against his own. A hot breath passed between them when finally, he broke apart. Thomas glanced down, their foreheads touching, and Minho leaned forward again. The next kiss took him back until his head hit the pillow and Minho hovered above him, lips moving, moulding with his own.

Thomas let his hands move in response, sliding up to cup either side of the other boy's cheeks, his thumbs rubbing circles into the edge of his jaw. Minho's teeth gazed at his lower lip which sent shivers down his spine; in answer, his legs wrapped around his hips and pulled him in, wanting to feel the warmth and weight of his body against his. Thomas's head fell back, and Minho took the chance to press his lips firmly against the hollow of his throat, kissing and sucking at the warm skin there.

A soft moan escaped, and Minho chuckled in response, dragging his tongue slowly up the edge of his throat. He pressed their bodies deeper together, hips grinding into the spot between his legs. Thomas let one hand rake through Minho's feather hair whilst the other slid down the arch of his back, over muscle and skin, to the generous curve of his backside where he squeezed as firmly as he could. It was now Minho's turn to moan.

Minho shook off the remnants of his shirt and balled it up, launching it away. Minho lowered against him again, hands sliding over Thomas's chest, past the flesh of his stomach to the hem of his shirt. His fingers brushed skin beneath the fabric, leaving scorch marks in their wake. Minho pulled, tearing the shirt up and over Thomas's head in one swift, impressive motion that had both boys laughing again.

Again and again, their lips crashed together. The laughter turning into moans of surprise when Minho's hand took a firm hold on the bulge growing in his trousers.

Thomas unbuttoned them and Minho fiddled with them as he dragged them away in a not so fluid motion but one that was equally as amusing. Although without the jeans to hide what was happening beneath, Thomas was again suddenly very self-aware. Minho's kisses returned to his neck, soft and gentle at first before passing down between his pecs then shifting to take Thomas's nipple wholly into his mouth. He teased it between his lips and his teeth, the slightest twitch of pain somehow blending into pleasure. His free hand returned to that bulge, massaging through the fabric of his boxers, his thumb brushing across the slightly wet spot leaking through.

Minho placed that thumb between his lips and moaned…

Thomas grabbed him by the arms and hauled him up again, needing to push his tongue through Minho's lips, to feel his own; wet and hot and just as determined to taste him in return. Thomas's hands' dove over Minho's shoulder blades and down the arch of his back to the waistband of his trousers where he pushed, exposing his backside – another part of his body he was infatuated with. Minho's eyes widened at the surprise.

It was this. This laughter and silliness and gave him the courage to exist at this moment with him and love every second of it.

Minho bowed his head, his lips determined to touch every spot on his neck and his jaw and once they had, they moved quickly along the line of his collar bone then down past his nipples again to the dip of his navel.

He paused, looking up at Thomas through those impossibly long lashes. Thomas found himself counting those lashes and dragging a finger across the stubble of square of his chin, taking in every possible detail he could. A question hung in those dark eyes as he again thumbed over that bulge.

"Want to take those off too?" Thomas choked out and Minho answered with a brilliant smile.

"Hell-Yeah, I wanna take them off," Minho retorted. He wasted no time in removing his boxers, gliding a hand firmly down his leg, taking them with him until they fell off his bandaged foot.

It took every ounce of strength remaining to steady his breathing, to open his eyes and take in the look on Minho's face. He'd expected Minho to be staring at his cock but instead, Minho smiled up at him then shot forward to kiss him again. "You are so beautiful, Thomas," Minho breathed into his mouth, his words rang with laughter and joy.

And Thomas believed him.

They kissed again before Thomas could repay the compliment. Another long, hard kiss before Minho knelt between his legs and took Thomas in his hand, his grip firm enough to send Thomas twitching. Then, he opened wide and took him into his mouth.

Thomas's head fell back and a sound like a whimper broke free. It was impossible to describe the sensation of Minho's mouth around him, dragging his tongue up and down the length of his shaft, his lips opening and closing around the head that brushed against the roof of Minho's mouth with each bob of his head. Minho paused to breathe, smacking the slick end of Thomas against his lips before diving back in. He fought the urge to force Minho's head down deeper, wanting to hear the boy moan.

Thomas could feel the rise within building already and fought it. Not yet, he thought. Not yet.

He could feel Minho's cock pressing against the inside of his leg and it reminded him that Minho still wore his trousers.

"Take them off," Thomas demanded, tapping Minho's legs. Minho was quick to oblige. Trousers and briefs disappeared over the edge of the bed and Thomas couldn't help but gawk at the size of what sprung free. "My turn," Thomas said shakily, tapping his chest. Minho nodded and shifted to sit atop Thomas's chest, the weight oddly comforting. Face to face with the magnitude of him, Thomas gulped and took him firstly in his hand. Minho's cock was beautiful and hard; his fingers shook as he stroked them down the thick, long shaft. The skin soft as silk and yet hard beneath.

His eyes lifted when Minho shuddered, his own fixated on his hand as Thomas pumped slowly, cherishing every little noise Minho made. He stared straight up into those eyes, wild with surprise and hunger and lust and Thomas opened his mouth and let him in.

Minho slid in slowly at first, his already wet head leaving a salty taste on his lips. The strangest taste and yet…Thomas wanted more. He flicked his tongue against the sensitive underside of his shaft and Minho arched into him.

Minho let out a groan.

"Does that feel good?" Thomas asked, removing the cock from his mouth monetarily to ask the question.

"Fuck…yes." Minho gasped when Thomas licked across the broad head, tongue dipping into the small slit across the tip. Thomas let his hand run under Minho's cock past his balls to caress the crease of his backside…then deeper in. His fingers brushed by Minho's entrance, back and forth. Minho lifted his own hand to his mouth and spat into it, bringing the saliva around to meet him at the same time Thomas licked his fingers and began massaging in circles; occasionally, he took the risk of dipping a fingertip inside.

Minho withdrew his cock from Thomas's mouth, grabbing a handful of his hair to hold his head back as he leaned down to kiss him. When they parted, he sat back and brushed his backside against Thomas's twitching cock.

His hand vanished behind, but Thomas felt it wrap around him positioning him between his cheeks. Thomas nodded, answering the question on the edge of Minho's lips and Minho lowered. Together they felt the head press against his hole, slipping back and forth with the wetness there until Minho guided him in.

Immediately, Minho winced and froze, eyes suddenly wide.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asked, his own body frozen. It took a second but Minho let out a long breath and dropped his head. One hand braced against Thomas's chest, he nodded. "Keep going." He asked and rose a fraction before lowering down again.

Thomas moaned at the same time Minho did, both boys shuddering at the sensation. Minho leaned forward, one hand holding Thomas in place as to not spring free as their lips met. Pressed together firmly, panting into his mouth, Minho began to rock back and forth and inch by inch eased down. Thomas couldn't take his eyes off Minho's face, the mix of pleasure and pain threatening to overcome him and was thankful it wasn't him. Thankful that at this moment, all he had to do was be patient and take these precious seconds to appreciate every inch of Minho's beautiful dark eyes.

"More," Minho breathed. Thomas flexed his hips and slid in another inch, then retreated nearly to the edge then sliding back in. Deep enough now for Minho to match his pace, bouncing and riding his cock through and through. Their breathing synced and Minho stilled above him, a feeling of completeness flooding them both as Thomas stretched him, filling him inch by inch until he was all the way in.

Their lips became more eager, hands more demanding and impatient. The gentleness was gone, replaced with a ferocity and desperation as neither had ever felt before. Again, his own body pulsed and reacted with a will of its own. His cock throbbed and twitched inside, pulsing against how tight Minho was. Each thrust edged him closer and closer towards finishing.

Minho's cock slapped against his stomach and Thomas snatched it into his good hand, pumping back and forth hard enough for Minho to cry out. He thrust with each pump, the rock of their bodies on the bed; Minho whimpered and Thomas pressed in deeper. His balls tightened, release gathering in his spine.

Nothing had ever felt so good and right with burning pleasure in his entire life.

His legs tensed, toes went numb, and hands clawed down the side of Minho's waist as he erupted inside him. Three, four, five great pulses of pure, unyielding pleasure.

Minho shot forward – the absence of his tight, wet hole around Thomas's dick was painful – and forced his cock between Thomas's lips. Minho grabbed handfuls of his hair and thrust up, up unto his mouth, again and again. He heard Minho groan and the crash of his free palm against the wall of the shack and Minho came with a thrust so hard it shook the bunk beneath them. Minho thrust up into his mouth, holding him there as he shot down Thomas's throat.

Thomas refused to open his mouth or pull away. Instead, he met Minho's load and stared him down as he swallowed. Only when the salty taste remained on his lips and tongue did he open and free Minho's cock from his mouth.

A mouth Minho then leaned down to kiss. Thomas hoped Minho could taste himself on his lips, hoped he liked it.

When they parted, Minho collapsed to the side. He lay in the crook of Thomas's arm, sweat dripping from their foreheads and lining their chests and yet Thomas couldn't care less as he pressed his face against it and breathed every inch of him in. Their fingers interlocked and legs knotted together. Minho kissed the top of his head and said… "That was…"

"I know…" Thomas panted. He surveyed the two of them. The taste on his lips, the smell in the air, the beautiful sticky stuff leaking out of Minho's hole and across the two of them.

"So much for staying clean…" Thomas said, and Minho looked to him and laughed.

The cover of the night made it ridiculously easy for the two boys to sneak again into the Deadheads to bathe in the stream. They went one at a time so if they were caught, they wouldn't be caught naked together in the water. Also, Thomas didn't think he would have been able to keep his hands off Minho if they were naked together again so soon.

By the time Thomas returned, clean and dressed, the inside of their shack had not only been tidied but rearranged. Minho had used this time not resting, as instructed, but instead had combined the two of their bunks to form one big one. The sight of Minho making the sheets and fluffing the pillows sent Thomas's heart soaring.

Thomas moved to meet him, arms sliding around his waist. Minho hummed in response. "You know, we might never actually use that bed again." He said, reminding him that the following morning the two were to leave the Glade and lead the Runners and the Hunters on their first mission to follow the Grievers.

Minho seemed to consider this but then shrugged, "It doesn't matter. We've got a home together here. And a home wherever we go, as long as we go together."

He spun and again their lips met in a moment that could have lasted forever…

If it hadn't been for Newt, calling his name.

"Tommy! Tommy, wake up!"

They broke apart. Minho's frown matching his own.

"It can't be time already?" Minho said.

"It isn't." Thomas sighed.

"Then why?"

The burst open and Newt flew through the door. Thomas and Minho leapt back – not ashamed of whatever this was but not ready to share it yet – and found new things to do. Thomas pretended to fold clothes. Minho started to gather his weapons.

"Newt, what is it?" Thomas asked casually.

"The Box!" Newt exclaimed, throwing up his arms.

"It arrived? Now?" In the middle of the night?

Newt laughed aloud and nodded, running hands through wild and untamed golden hair. "Oh yes! And you are never going to guess who's inside!"

~Asher's Note~

Hello! Sorry for the wait on this chapter but it is the last chapter, the longest chapter and by far the sexiest. I very much enjoyed writing this story and I hope its very short plot was enjoyable to those of you who read it. I ship Minho and Thomas so hard and will now be online searching for as many pieces of fan art as I can.

~ Responding to Your reviews ~

Nesslum: Thank you for reviewing! Glad you enjoyed it.