Bent, But Not Broken
It was early.
The sun was barely above the towering walls of the Maze, just beginning to turn the dawn clouds into gilded versions of themselves. The sky was pale, clear azure, with the promise of fair weather the rest of the day. The grass of the Glade glowed emerald in the growing morning light. But so far, not a soul stirred in the peacefulness. Sleep bathed the clearing in sluggish warmth. The boys of the Maze wouldn't wake for another half hour at least.
Except for one.
Newt stood at a place just inside the entrance to the Maze, gazing upward. The cracked stone wall soared to an impossible height above him. It was draped with a veil of dark ivy that spidered downward toward the hard ground below. It was a dismal, gloomy place. Certainly not welcoming. Certainly awful. He felt his hands ball themselves into fists at his sides. Yes, this place was awful. And he was trapped here. They were trapped here, like rats, like filthy rats, discarded by whoever the hell WICKED was. They had been here for so long, building their numbers, their system, their maps of the Maze. As if they even had a chance of escaping. WICKED, wherever they were, would never let the Gladers leave.
Newt felt the hopelessness settle over him and to his surprise, tears burned his eyes. He swallowed hard. He hated it here. God, he hated it here. He wanted to be free and he desperately wanted his friends to be free. Frypan, Gally, Alby, Chuck, Ben, Minho.
Minho. Always Minho.
A single tear escaped, racing down his cheek, leaving a hot trail behind. He inhaled a deep breath, steeling himself. His mind cleared. Went completely blank.
And he began to climb the wall of the Maze.
The ivy tickled his bare arms and tried to creep under his T-shirt, but he pushed through it. It was hard to cling to, get a good hold of, but he managed. He planted his feet against the wall and hauled himself up. The effort took a while to begin taking its toll on him; he was a Runner, after all, and Runners were known to be strong. The muscles in his arms still ached after a good bit of climbing though and soon, he paused. Twisting his body around, he peered at the ground below. Shadows still covered the stone and the dawn light hadn't reached the bottom of the Maze yet. He lifted his eyes to the Glade. It was a beautiful thing of green in this light, trees, and grass, and ferns. He almost ached for it. Almost.
He turned back around to face the wall and leaned forward to press his forehead against it. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was a curious sinking feeling in his heart. Frypan, Alby, Minho, everyone. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I couldn't hold on. I'm not strong enough.
But he was strong enough to jump.
Newt had one shivering second in midair to feel regret. Then he landed with his full weight on one leg, and heard the sickening crunch before he felt it.
Unbelievable pain exploded in Newt's body. It was an all-consuming fire, burning him from inside, a knife in his leg. Stars danced across his vision for an instant. A strangled cry ripped from his throat. Chest heaving, he fought to sit up, to look at the damage. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and the sight made his stomach turn. Sweat beaded his forehead as he cautiously attempted to scoot backward, toward the open doors of the Maze. Fresh agony rocked through him and he cried out again, louder this time. Dammit, it hurt like hell. He collapsed onto the ground, unable to help himself. "No," he groaned. "This wasn't what I wanted."
Voices burst from the Glade, as everyone heard the sounds of Newt's injury.
"What the hell was that?!"
"It came from the Maze!"
"Holy crap, Newt!"
"Newt, what happened?!"
"Hurry, you shanks! Don't leave him there!" That last one came from Alby and his dusky face appeared above Newt a second later. The faces of a couple other Gladers clustered around as well, all with worried, horrified expressions. Alby knelt down and hesitantly touched Newt's shoulder. "Newt, what happened?" he demanded, more angry than anything.
Newt clenched his jaw. "Fell," he bit out. The throbbing in his leg was intense, blackening his vision for a second. "I fell."
Alby's dark eyes widened. "Fell off of what? The damn wall?"
Newt didn't want to admit it, because to admit it would be to admit that he was weak. "Was an...accident," he gasped.
"Accident? What kind of—"
"Newt!"
The familiar voice cut Alby off and suddenly Minho was there, crouching hurriedly next to Newt. Through the pain, Newt drank in the sight of that black, messily spiked hair and river-water-dark eyes. An ache formed in his chest when he thought of the Keeper in front of him and what he'd just tried to do to himself. How could he hurt Minho like that?
Minho's brow was furrowed with concern, but behind that was anger. "You better have a good explanation for this, you stupid shank," he muttered. Then he bent down and slipped his arms underneath Newt's back and knees. Newt tried not to think about the sleekly defined muscle pressing against him through his shirt as Minho prepared to lift him up. Then he did lift him up and Newt's thoughts died in a burst of agony. An obscene moan left him as Minho tried to carry him and not jostle his leg at the same time.
"Shuck, Newt," Minho hissed, glaring down at the boy in his arms. "What did you do to yourself?"
Newt couldn't reply; he was too busy focusing on not blacking out. He was silent as Minho carried him toward the Homestead.
Behind them, the Maze loomed like a watchful beast.
-o-o-o-
Newt didn't wake up until much later and when he did, he found that he was in a bed, in a dimly lit room, and Minho was there. His heart instantly raced in his chest, as it often did when he was around the Keeper of the Runners. He couldn't help it really.
The first thing Minho had done when Newt became a Runner was flash his signature, deadly smirk and Newt was done for from there. He loved that mischievous twist of Minho's mouth, loved his tousled, almost-spiked hair, loved the way he teased, and laughed, and said Newt's name. If anyone else ever found out just how smitten Newt was with the cocky Asian, he'd never hear the end of it.
Well, a lot of good all those warm, fuzzy feelings did him; he was still in a bed, broken. He still hadn't felt like he had enough to stay here for. He hadn't felt like Minho was enough. And that broke him even more.
He swallowed. "You didn't have to stay here with me," he mumbled, and Minho looked up at him. He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "I'm not dead y'know."
"Yeah," Minho said flatly. "You're not dead. But you wanted to be."
Newt's stomach twisted. His smoky blue gaze flicked to Minho, then away again. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Don't give me that crap," Minho growled. "I'm not stupid and I'm not blind. I know what you were doing out there."
Newt flinched. "You don't know a bloody thing about me."
"I know enough to know that you just tried to kill yourself."
"Shut up."
"You gave up."
"I said, shut up."
"You gave up on us, and you tried to jump off the Maze wall!"
"Shut up, Minho!" Newt shouted back at him, rage flaring inside him as he glowered at the other boy. He was trembling, both from the argument and because of what he'd done. "I know what I did and I know why did it! And I did not do it because I gave up on you guys!"
Minho jumped to his feet then, shoving his chair back into a wall. His gaze blazed and his fists were shaking at his sides. "You're a shucking liar," he snarled. "If you were still fighting for us, you never would've did it. But you don't think we can make it, don't think we're worth it, so you chose the easy way out. You coward." He spat the last word.
Newt snapped. He was up and off the bed in two seconds flat, crossing the short distance to Minho, ready to punch the guy's face off. He made it three steps before his leg crumpled beneath him. He gasped unexpectedly, and fell against Minho, who caught him by the arms and helped support him. The anger was already draining away as Newt glanced down at his leg. It was bandaged, and was no longer bent strangely. He tested it tentatively against the floor. It wouldn't take his weight.
"Newt," Minho said, calmer now, though still hard. "You broke it. You broke your own damn leg and you've been asleep in here for who-knows-how-long while we tried to fix it. Alby said you're gonna have a limp. A limp, Newt. Do you understand that?" He searched Newt's face, gaze intense.
Newt dragged his eyes away from his leg and up to Minho's face. He understood. His heart broke. "I'm not a Runner anymore, am I?" he asked hollowly. It wasn't a question because he already knew he was right.
Minho shook his head. "No. You're not."
Newt was numb. To lose what you were in the Maze was to lose a part of yourself. And he had lost something that he needed. To be a Runner didn't just mean finding the way out of the Maze. It meant long walks with Minho, planning their days, bent over maps, joking at nights after a day running in the Maze, side by side. He would lost it all, because of his own foolish mistake.
He looked down at the floor between him and Minho, letting the other boy hold him up by the arms because he couldn't do it for himself anymore. "I hate myself," he murmured, a barely-there confession in the quiet room.
"Yeah, I hate you too," Minho quipped bitingly. Then he flitted forward, touching his lips to Newt's for the smallest of moments before pulling back again.
Newt stuttered and blushed and stared at Minho in shock. "What..."
Minho rolled his eyes and huffed. "Aw, shuck it," he muttered. "I was wrong, wasn't I? Chuck said you had some stupid crush on me and I knew I shouldn't have trusted that shank."
Newt gaped at him. "Chuck knew?" he asked, his voice going higher than he would've liked.
Minho blinked. "Knew? Wait, you mean he was righ—" He didn't finish because Newt had seized him by the front of his shirt and now he was kissing him hungrily.
Damn, Minho's mouth was soft. So much softer than Newt had ever imagined it would be. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, and brought his hands up to Minho's neck. Minho kissed him back, his fingers slipping to Newt's hips, dragging him closer. Their bodies were touching from head to toe now, sending scorching heat between them. Newt's mind was reeling and his heart spun in woozy circles in his chest. He couldn't believe this was happening, but he certainly wasn't going to stop. Minho breathed his name into his mouth. His thumbs dipped into Newt's waistband. Newt bit back a whimper of need.
When they broke apart, foreheads touching, Newt felt as though the quiet around them should never be broken again. He opened his eyes and found that Minho was gazing at him with a new softness in his gaze. His mouth curved into something close to a smile. "Still hate yourself, Newt?" he asked quietly.
Newt smiled in amusement. "No," he admitted. He glanced up at Minho through a lock of blonde hair. "Still hate me?"
Minho smirked then, and the sight of it did what it had done the very first day; it stole Newt's breath away. Minho sighed in defeat, ducked his head to nuzzle Newt's neck. "I freakin' love you, you moron."