Author's note ~ Hope you enjoy
Hissing as he delicately guided the zipper down, he couldn't completely stop a whimper from escaping his lips as he exposed his overly sensitive flesh.
This was going to be quick.
It wasn't nagging, Newt assured himself as he traveled the now familiar path through the twilight of the forest. He wasn't being a nuisance, or acting...clingy. He'd slipped out of the dining area moments after the man, dead set on finding out what was going on. He was legitimately concerned. All day he'd had a growing sense that something was off with Adrian, something not quite right. The Adrian HE knew didn't snap at him, even when he was knocking on the door at dawn, and certainly didn't answer an innocent question in the condescending kind of tone he'd used after breakfast. The Adrian HE knew didn't get cranky when Newt joined him for a swim, or act as though his company was a bother. The Adrian HE knew didn't get all quiet and surly when he was working, or give off angry vibes, or refuse to return a smile. Something was going on, something was wrong, and he was going to find out what it was.
Maybe Adrian was sick?
A skittering in the underbrush startled the boy and he turned to give whatever it was a wide berth – just to be safe. While he may have ended up taking a somewhat more circuitous route than originally intended, he still reached his destination in the end. He could see the tidy little house through a break in the forest ahead and moved towards it, skirting between a tall tangle of ferns and a wide crooked tree right on the edge of a stand of smaller conifers, his footsteps silent on the deep bed of pine needles. Just as he was going to pass the wide trunk he heard it; the quick, hitching breaths of someone in distress.
Addy.
He peered through a snarl of shoulder height broad leaf bushes, easily spotting the pale color of Adrian's thin t shirt among the greens and browns of the foliage. Back to him, his left arm laid across the bark of a young tree, the man stood with his head lowered and his tightened shoulders hunched. It looked like he was shivering. His posture clearly defensive, his ragged breathing sounding like stifled sobs, Newt's heart dropped down to his shoes.
What is it, Addy? What's got you so...so shattered?
Not knowing what to say but grimly committed to offering whatever solace he could, he started to skirt around the bush, the leaves rustling as he reached out to push the branches aside.
Adrian turned his head sharply, abruptly silent. His face held an odd mixture of anger, frustration and pain.
"You've got to be shucking kidding me! Jesus Christ, can I not get TEN God Damn minutes to myself around here? Can you not entertain yourselves for TEN SHUCKING MINUTES?!"
Newt had recoiled as soon as Adrian had turned, sliding back behind the tree to hide. As he'd started to round the corner he got a clearer glimpse at the way Adrian was standing – and the position of his right hand. Mortally embarrassed, wondering it it was possible to hit a fatal level of humiliation, he could actually feel the heat in his face as his pale skin turned brick red.
Oh.
OH.
That was why Adrian had been tense all day.
This morning, had he been...? Was he expecting some alone time at the swimming hole, and Newt had interrupted him?
And he was worried that the man was ill.
Feeling like a simple minded child for failing to recognize the – now that he thought about it – rather obvious signs he'd been seeing all day, he cowered against the tree, petrified at the thought of the painfully cringe-worthy conversation that now loomed over him.
"Look, if someone's there, just...just take a damn walk, would you? Unless someone's bleeding to death or there's an army coming, go away and give me some freakin' space."
Newt covered his mouth with his hand. Adrian hadn't seen him.
A long, pregnant pause followed.
"Is someone there?" The man demanded.
Newt said nothing.
Another long, tense silence was punctuated by a heavy sigh, and a low muttering of words that Newt couldn't quite hear. Reassured by the unmistakable dismissal, the boy decided on the spot to remain motionless and unnoticed rather than try to slink away and risk discovery. He'd committed to being a better, stronger, more mature Newt; surely he could mentally twiddle his thumbs for a short period while the man took care of himself, giving Adrian some well earned privacy. It was the mature, adult response to the situation.
Newt was, after all, a guy. He lived in a relatively small space with dozens of other guys. While not frequent, he had disturbed other gladers engaged in personal acts a time or two before. And, sleeping in such close quarters, it was inevitable that you could hear the nightly actions of those around you. In self-defense and out of deference to the personal business of others, he'd learned to tune out the shuffling, the panting, the groaning in the night. Wrapped up warm and tight in his own hammock, he didn't even hear them anymore; they were just one more bit of white noise far off in the background. Surely he could apply the same principle here.
Though he was tempted to plug his ears to give Adrian complete seclusion, Newt feared doing so would leave him vulnerable should the man walk this way after he had...after he was finished. He compromised and closed his eyes instead, picturing the stone and ivy walls of the maze, mentally mapping out the route he'd be running the next day. He was finally going back into a full rotation in the maze – he needed to start thinking like a runner again. Following twists and turns in his head, he tried to focus on his task, his job, his purpose.
But closing his eyes only sharpened his sense of hearing.
How could he ever have mistaken that shuddering breath for anguish? Even knowing he'd been ignoring this sort of thing for as long as he'd been in the glade, he struggled to block out the sound.
Ivy on the walls, dry dusty stone beneath his feet.
Little gasps, a low, quiet, throaty moan.
Concentrate. Left, left, right, straight, left.
The whisper of cloth as his arm moved relentlessly, a choked off whimper.
Cut...cut the ivy. Mark the route. Don't break strike. Keep moving. Remember...
More intense movement now, harsher breathing. Sweat pearled on Newt's forehead.
Remember the path. Have to remember the path, so you can make the map, so you –
"Ah....ah...y-es!"
Newt shivered once, violently, as the man let out a strangled cry of release. Trying not to fidget as he waited for the man to leave so that he could escape, he didn't realize he'd been biting his lip until the coppery tang of blood fogged across his tongue.
It felt like ages, weeks, years before the man's breathing leveled out and he heard the sound of slow footsteps heading into the clearing. Newt opened his eyes hurriedly, noting dizzily that twilight still hovered over the glade. Swallowing thickly, he headed back the way he'd come as quickly and quietly as he could. Sweaty, a little shaky – and feeling a purely physical pull he hadn't in a long time – Newt all but ran to his bed and quickly hid under his blankets, curling into a churned up and terribly confused little ball.
He trembled as his treacherous mind refused to let him slide into the oblivion of sleep, replaying the sights – and sounds – of the scene he'd just witnessed over and over in his head. He curled himself tighter, trying to deny his body's acute and unexpected reaction to what he'd seen.
Why? Why am I reacting like this? He thought brokenly, his skin hot from embarrassment – and excitement. It's not like I haven't heard, haven't seen other guys doing...that. Why am I...do I feel like...this?
I shouldn't feel like this.
It was only Addy. It was just Addy.
Something like grief settled into the pit of his stomach.
It was Addy.
Adrian slept like the dead, and woke feeling strong and rested. The haze of sexual frustration gone from his mind, he walked into the cook hut when the sun was barely breaking over the tall stone walls, whistling a cheery little tune and carrying a mostly full metal bucket.
He lit the cooking fires, checked on a a few items he'd prepped the night before and had the contents from the bucket boiling hard before Lee and Dave stumbled in for the day, still yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Both sniffed the air heartily as they caught wind of an unusual but deliciously sweet smell. Adrian just smiled, gesturing toward the supplies already laid out.
"Let's get on it, guys. The horde will be here before we know it."
Keeping it simple, he sent one for a fresh bucket of milk and started the other on cooking up a huge batch of oats. Satisfied the boys could handle the simple meal, Adrian retrieved a large covered bowl of dough he'd put together last night and punched down first thing this morning, pulling out small handfuls of soft yeasty bread dough and rolling them between his palms. In minutes he'd covered two rough metal sheet pans, sliding them into the grooves nicked into the side walls of the rudimentary wood stove. The intoxicating smell of bread baking filled the cook hut, causing Lee to sigh in appreciation as he came in with the heavy bucket of milk.
Working quickly and keeping an eagle eye on his buns, Adrian hauled a large chunk of delicately pale pork from the ancient refrigeration unit and made short work of slicing pieces, so thin they were translucent, from the hunk of meat. He threw the mass of meat on the flat grill above the baking rolls and hit the pantry, coming back with a couple of little bottles in his hand. He picked up a long battered butcher knife and began flipping the meat, unscrewing the top of each jar in turn as he worked, sprinkling the spices liberally without ever allowing the meat to stop moving. He called over his shoulder as he worked.
"How many runners are going out today, Lee?"
"Huh? Oh, uh...nine. I think." Lee answered from where he rigorously cleaned up the detritus created from the morning work. "Wait, no....eight, yeah, eight. Newt's back to running solo, so eight. Why?"
"What kind of food do you normally send with them?" Adrian asked, brushing away the slight unease of his fragile friend being out there alone.
"Whatever we've got, usually."
"Mostly apples, other fruit or veg if we've got it, leftover meat if it isn't too messy." Dave added, shrugging as he meticulously stirred a large pot of rapidly thickening gruel. "We don't exactly got a lot of choices for go lunches, here. Well, for any meal, really. Breakfast is usually leftovers from whatever we had the night before."
Adrian transferred the tender cooked meat from the grill to a bowl, then used a chunk of burlap to protect his hand as he pulled the pans from the oven. Setting the now golden buns and the bowl of meat on top of a shelf to cool, he checked on his boiling pot, grinning as he noted the thick viscous texture of the liquid. With a roguish light dancing in his eyes, he tipped the pot for the others to see.
"Oh, I think we can do a little better than leftovers. Let's serve it up."
Breakfast was received with just as much enthusiasm as it had been the day before, each glader ardently savoring a large hot serving of thick oatmeal, swimming in creamy milk and indulgently topped with newly made maple syrup. Adrian only served the first dozen or so boys himself before leaving Dave on the line, ducking back into the kitchen to throw together lunches for those who'd spend their day burning through calories as they ran the stone labyrinth beyond the gates. Slicing into each fluffy roll, he heaped on a generous portion of the now cooled pork and wrapped each meat bun in a piece of brown paper, unearthed from the supply room. The thick sheath of pre-cut sheets had been buried under various other more important supplies, and Adrian was grateful to have found it. Using more burlap he made up eight bundled lunches, each containing a meat bun, an apple, and a second bun he'd split and drizzled with maple syrup before closing it up again. As though on cue, Minho poked his head in the door as he was tying the last bundle shut with a length of rough twine.
"Hey Chef, we're on the move. Great breakfast. What's for lunch?"
"Bagged and tagged and ready to roll." Adrian stated, carrying the make shift lunch bags out of the kitchen.
Minho's cheeky grin turned to one of curious speculation – and greed – as he accepted the amply sized packages of food. "Whatever else I can say about you, man, you sure know how to make a meal. What've you packed – "
Frypan shoved past the keeper of the runners, nearly knocking him off balance as he got up in Adrian's face, his own twisted with anger and outrage.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He snarled, his uninjured hand balled in rage. "You think you can just take over my kitchen – my kitchen – and force me out? Toss me over like some snot nosed greenie and take my place?!" Adrian pivoted and placed a hand on his back, smoothly guiding the livid boy into the cook hut as he ranted.
"You, you think I don't know what this is?" He demanded, pointing a shaking finger at the calmly waiting man. "Just cause I'm laid up for a day or two, just cause you know a little 'bout food, you can take my place? Be the keeper, be the new cook? My name is FRYPAN. THIS IS MY KITCHEN!" He bellowed, his voice rising ever second that Adrian stayed silent. "I worked with you before, yeah, so you got some good ideas, so shuckin' what? No just-got-here slinthead is gonna chuck me outta my own kitchen, take my shuckin' place!" His chest heaved with the insult of it, and for one long tense moment, no one said anything at all.
Incongruously, Adrian loosed a deep, heartfelt rumble of laughter. Frypan stared at him as though he'd lost his mind.
"I don't want your job, Fry." He chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity of the moment. "You couldn't pay me to do what you do, three times a day, day after day after day. No chance, no way."
The man's visible mirth at the idea let the tension out of the air like a pin to a balloon. Lee let out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief as the atmosphere lightened.
"You've done a damn fine job of feeding all these gladers for going on two years. Especially considering what you have to work with, and adding in that you had no idea where to start when you got here. That's commendable. But you're out with an injury and someone has to step in and hold the fort until you're back on the roll – I just happen to be the most qualified to do so. So you're kitchen's in my hands for the moment; and you've got to know it's safe with me. Just don't enjoy your little vacation too much; as soon as you're back, I'll be more than thrilled to apply myself elsewhere."
Frypan huffed, letting out a jumbled mutter under his breath.
"...all praisin'...goin' on and on...so much better..."
Adrian shook his head, taking pity on the jealous boy.
"I happen to have access to a resource you don't." He reminded gently. "I can take one look in the pantry and know exactly what everything is – and how to use it. I know how to gauge amounts, mix and measure and put things together. I came in here with an understanding and a knowledge that you never had, or are unable to remember. And unless you've got pressing business elsewhere," Adrian mentioned, watching the boy closely, "I was thinking you might be interested in hanging in here with us. You're not ready to get your hands back in it yet, but there's no reason I can't show you a few of the tricks I know, teach you some recipes. By the time you reclaim your kitchen, trust me, they won't be talking about my food. They'll be drooling over yours."
"What kind of food?" Frypan asked, intrigued but suspicious. "I don't do no fancy crap here."
In lieu of answering, Adrian walked over to the cold unit and pulled out a large plastic bag, bulging from the large slab of pork belly marinating in a concoction of spices.
"What're your feelings on bacon?"
Despite a restless and mostly sleepless night, Newt was ready – even eager – to get back out into the maze. Ready to prove he was off the bench, ready to do something productive and necessary. Ready to get the hell out of the glade for a few hours. He'd accepted and wolfed down his breakfast without trying to make conversation, hardly taking the time to enjoy the sweet treat and promptly heading to the North gate to wait for the great stone wall to groan open. He did a few cursory stretches, hearing his keeper slide up beside him and not bothering to acknowledge his presence until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and accepted the brown cloth bundle held out without comment, stuffing it unceremoniously into his runner's bag. Minho watched him with undecipherable eyes.
"You're sure you're ready to be back in the game?" Minho asked, in a deadly serious voice with none of his usual sarcasm or cheek.
"Absolutely." Newt replied tersely, looking directly into his friend's eyes to drive the point home. "I've been on bloody holiday for far too long."
Neither broke the intense stare as the gate started to move, grinding to a shuddering halt and offering a great yawning gap into the belly of the beast. Minho nodded once in solidarity.
"Let's go!"
Running. Hard stone under his feet, cool air in his lungs. Running. A knife in his hand to cut the ivy on the fly, marking turns. His muscles warmed, moving fluidly as they propelled him forward, his eyes scanning and memorizing every path, every route. Running. This is what he was meant to do, this is where he was supposed to be. Pushing himself, pushing his body, tirelessly seeking the answer, the way out for all of them. Running.
After an hour of hard and sweaty effort he slowed to a recuperative walk and dug into his bag for food, knowing he had to keep his energy up. He crunched through the apple as he walked, feeling his body start to grumble at the exertion after his extended recess from the task. Remembering the reason for the mandatory healing time abruptly brought back the anger and the shame of the whole experience, and he broke into a defiant sprint once more, determined to prove he was back to peak form. Desperate to prove he could still do what he was tasked to do.
Run.
Two and a half grueling hours later, he pulled to a breathless stop at the last dead end; the very end of his section. Giving in to his begging body he squatted with his back against the wall and rested, pulling deeply from the water bottle he'd barely touched. Desperate for fuel, he fished out the brown sack without any particular feeling of hope – the food the runners tended to carry with them was quick, convenient, and usually vastly unsatisfying. Unwrapping the brown paper slowly, his mouth watered at the smell of soft, fresh bread and juicy seasoned pork. He suddenly remembered who was manning the kitchen today.
Addy.
Struggling not to simply devour it in huge starving bites, he forced himself to take slow, sensible bites, savoring the flavor that danced across his tongue. It may not be a terribly sophisticated meal but at that moment, cold pork on a lopsided bun was an offering fit for a king. It also brought to mind the man he'd been working hard to ignore all day. And the memory he'd labored to forget all night.
Addy.
Not ready to let himself dwell, uneasy with the turn his thoughts had taken, he hastily swallowed the last bite and pushed to his feet, his body whining all the way. He'd made good time getting here, but he still had to make it back before the gates shut. Relegating himself to a slightly more moderate pace on the way back, he methodically followed the twists and turns back to the glade to rendezvous with the other runners. He demolished the sticky maple bun on the run, the shock of sugar on his tongue exquisite and unexpected, and again he thought of the man.
Addy.
Running. With his body crying for a break and his mind guiding him back towards safety, for the first time in (his admittedly short) memory he was torn. As much as he hated the idea of being trapped in the little green prison of the glade, he always carried a healthy dose of fear and a strong sense of dread when mapping the stone warren outside its gates, feeling an undeniable sense of relief when he made it back through the gate. Now, as he skidded to a halt in the grass of the meadow, chest heaving and sweat running down his face, the thought of actually facing the man made him vaguely ill. Bent from the waist, gasping for breath, the pressure of being back in the glade caused a little voice to speak up in the back of his head.
Run.
But he wasn't a little kid who demanded attention, nor a whiny immature brat who acted without thinking. He'd made the choice to leave those feeble traits behind and be a better man. He couldn't run. Not from the glade, not from his friends, not from himself.
Not from Addy.
It was a small glade and, sooner or later, he knew he'd end up talking to or working with the man.
Newt couldn't throw him over, ignore him, avoid him – and he didn't want to. Adrian had teased him and taught him, trusted him and earned his trust in return, had healed him when he'd thought he was broken past repair. He'd become a friend, a tutor, a big brother; the exact relationship blurring into something unique and special and just...Addy.
No, he couldn't just abandon Addy.
He took purposeful strides towards the map room when he'd sufficiently recovered, making some hard and fast decisions as he went.
No, he wouldn't run. He would handle things in a calm, reasonable manner. And he would do so by keeping the whole uncomfortable little mess entirely to himself. He was human after all, he reasoned, it wasn't anyone's fault if his body involuntarily reacted to certain things in...personally unsettling ways. And it was no one's business but his own. It was a harmless little thing, not even worth thinking about really. What harm could come of it, if no one knew but him?
Obstinate in his decision, confident that this was the right choice, the tense indecision he'd carried since the night before dissolved at the simplicity of the solution.
What could possibly go wrong?
Author's note ~
See you next chapter!
~Ruby