Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2117451.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Maze_Runner_Series_-_James_Dashner
  Relationship:
      Newt/Thomas_(Maze_Runner), Minho_&_Newt_(Maze_Runner), Minho_&_Thomas_
      (Maze_Runner)
  Character:
      Thomas_(Maze_Runner), Newt_(Maze_Runner), Minho_(Maze_Runner), Alby_(Maze
      Runner)
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Kinda_AU, Outdoor_Sex, Wet_Dream, Training, Anal
      Sex, Spoilers_for_The_Maze_Runner, top_Thomas, Bottom_Newt, Pining, Love
      Bites, Barebacking, Protectiveness, A_little_angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-11 Words: 4998
****** Combat Training ******
by Smontheye
Summary
     "So," Minho continued, tone suggesting he thought the answer was
     obvious, "I need to give you some combat training, if you're gonna go
     out and be a Runner." He pulled two long, slate gray knives out of
     his pack and handed one handle-first to Thomas. He took it, noting
     upon closer inspection the blade was dull. "Can't have our future
     Keeper of the Runners unable to defend himself from some scrawny
     shuck going through a bad Changing."
     (In which Thomas has a crush on Newt and acts on it.)
Notes
     Generally, I went with their appearances from the upcoming movie
     instead of the book (in case that bothers you) because Thomas
     Sangster is crazy perfect as Newt, square jaw and long hair be
     damned. Everyone else was cast pretty similar to the book's brief
     descriptions, so this note is otherwise kinda pointless. Spoilers for
     The Maze Runner and very, very subtly for The Death Cure.
The sun was slightly orange in the sky, darkness a few hours away, and Thomas
would have felt tentatively peaceful, if looking at the sky didn't remind him
how unnaturally perfect it was. His mind had spent the past week unconsciously
yearning to find routine and order in chaos of the arrival of the girl, his
night in the Maze, and the voice in his head that appeared and disappeared less
than a day ago. Now, training with Minho to be a Runner, part of Thomas hoped
to settle in somewhat a routine and find his place among the Gladers.  The rest
of him wanted to be out of the Glade and back with his forgotten family and
friends.
"This way, Greenie." Minho called back to him. "We ain't got all day."
He glanced at the sky again before it was obscured by trees.  That morning,
Minho had led Thomas especially quickly through the Maze, and the two boys
returned to the Glade only two hours after lunch, panting and sweaty.  As the
Keeper sketched out the day's map, giving slightly breathless pointers as he
went, Thomas, supposing he should be used to getting no answers by now, had
asked, "Why are we back early?" Minho paused in his speech about the importance
of clean, straight lines to shake his head at him in a way that said, "You'll
see. Stop bothering me about it now." 
Thomas's thoughts wandered as he followed Minho's steps into the copse of trees
called the Deadheads, though they did not go to the mystery of the girl.
Instead, Thomas thought of Newt and was hit for the third time since coming out
of the Maze with an irrational pang of jealousy at how worried and relieved the
blond boy looked crouched over Alby's unconscious, breathing body, barely
sparing Thomas a glance.  
"You're really out of it today," Minho's voice broke in. "Haven't gotten bored
of your glamorous new job already, have you?" 
"Wha—" Thomas sputtered. "No, I—" He noticed that they had reached a small
clearing, and Minho was setting his Runner's pack down. "What are we here for?"
"Calm down, shank." The older boy replied, grinning. "Newt told me about how
Ben would have killed you over in the graveyard the other day, if Alby hadn't
ridden in like a knight in shining armor." 
"So?" Thomas frowned at reminder of how much Newt clearly admired and respected
Alby. He wanted Newt to think of him as a hero, not some Greenie that needs his
hand held through everything.
"So," Minho continued, tone suggesting he thought the answer was obvious, "I
need to give you some combat training, if you're gonna go out and be a Runner."
He pulled two long, slate gray knives out of his pack and handed one handle-
first to Thomas. He took it, noting upon closer inspection the blade was dull.
"Can't have our future Keeper of the Runners unable to defend himself from some
scrawny shuck going through a bad Changing."
"Newt told you to?" Thomas asked, wondering if he ought to feel warm that the
second-in-command cared for him or embarrassed that the blond boy knew how
pathetic he must have been during the Ben incident.
"You don't realize how stupid it is being here, a Glader, with no klunking clue
how to fight?" Minho looked on the verge of laughing.  "Enough slintheads hate
you, as it is."
Thomas thought about Gally's vow to kill him and suddenly agreed. He followed
the older boy to the middle of the clearing.
"Well, come at me." Minho gestured impatiently after a moment.
Thomas, gripping the knife, did.  Seconds later, he felt his back hit the
ground and the cold of a blade pressed against his neck. 
"Too slow. You have to observe, watch my movements, try to predict them." 
Thomas was released, and the lesson went on similarly for more than an hour,
with short breaks interspersed. He would try to pin or disarm Minho and end up
on the ground, frustrated but listening to the other boy's pointers. The
thought of all the bruises that he'd probably have in a few hours made him
groan inwardly.  As the sun moved farther down in the sky, he got the hang of
it, knowing when to dodge and feint and lunge. The movements suddenly felt
oddly familiar, and Thomas wondered if Chuck was on the right track thinking he
was a murderer before he lost his memories.
He was about to win his third spar in a row, ready twist Minho's knife arm,
when he spotted familiar gleam of blond hair at the edge of the forest.
Newt emerged into the clearing, grinning and holding a basket. The sun low in
the sky behind him lit up his golden hair like a halo, and though Thomas could
not remember ever going to any specific church or even being religious, he did
know that at that moment his best friend at the Glade looked like an angel
straight out of a Renaissance painting.
"Oof!" All the air in Thomas's lungs was knocked out as Minho took advantage of
his distraction. He heard Newt's laugh, a beautiful, ringing yet slightly
scratchy sound. 
"Brought you shanks dinner," Newt spoke as Keeper and trainee brushed
themselves off. "Don't bloody get used to it." He added, eyes making contact
with Thomas's. "Consider it a favor I owe you for keeping Alby alive." Newt's
face, despite being happier than usual, still showed signs of worrying. Thomas
wondered how long Newt had spent at Alby's bedside that day and felt another
unwarranted tinge of jealousy. But Newt was here now, and Thomas smelled the
spaghetti and meatballs coming from the picnic basket and realized how hungry
he was.
"At this rate, we ought to get married." Minho brushed sweat off his forehead,
and Thomas was startled at how close the other boy's words hit to his actual
thoughts, his—he had only admitted it recently—crush on Newt since the day he
came out of the Box. "Be my shucking housewife, Newt."
"Like I don't already bloody act like one for you." Newt snapped without
malice, walking slowly toward a flat rock to set the food on.  Thomas noticed
with dismay that the boy's limp was worse than usual. He ran forward and
grabbed the basket from Newt. 
"I can get it." He watched Newt arch a golden eyebrow before relenting. 
"Anyway, how's trainin'?" The former Runner asked.
"I was just about to lose to the Greenie until you klunked over and distracted
him."  
"Really, Tommy?" Newt looked impressed and slightly disbelieving. Thomas
wondered whether to be offended but settled on elated because it felt good to
have the older boy's admiration. 
Thomas shrugged, but Minho interrupted him before he could answer.
"Shucking made for the Glade, this kid. A natural at everything. Bet he'd even
give Stephen a run for his money, if he works at it." 
"I wish I could see that." Newt smiled, but there was a twist of sadness in his
lips. He turned to Thomas. "Too tired for another go, with me?" 
"No, but you sure about this?" Thomas eyed his bad leg. Minho, despite the
pleasure he seemed to take in throwing his trainee around, looked concerned as
well.
"I've been through worse." Newt said seriously. "And it's been a while. I'm
probably as rusty and useless as cow klunk by now."
Thomas studied Newt as an opponent. The blond boy's arms were muscular, but
Thomas realized as he met more of the Gladers and became accustomed to his own
body that Newt was actually quite slender and leanly muscled. Thomas supposed
that was also why he had seemed so tall at first glance, despite being about
the same height as him. Now, next to Minho's almost bulging muscles, Newt
looked distressingly delicate. Thomas was suddenly glad his friend couldn't go
into the Maze anymore and felt the strange urge to lock him up, keep him
somewhere safe away from the Grievers, the Creators, everything.
Minho passed Newt his dulled knife, and Thomas adjusted his grip on his own. He
tensed, waiting for the other to strike first. They circled each other for a
moment until Newt rolled his eyes and lunged forward. Thomas quickly dodged to
the side, ready to grab Newt's knife arm, but the boy was too quick, probably
having guessed what he was going to do. The blonde twisted out of the way and
redirected his momentum towards Thomas's ankle, trying to trip him. Despite
Minho having used the move on him before, Thomas barely dodged out of the way. 
They fought like that for a few minutes, Newt's movements quick, economical,
and strategic compared to Minho's all-out approach. He noticed that he was
putting as little strain as he could on his bad leg. To Thomas's brain, more
than a little muddled by a long day of training and the proximity to Newt's
surprisingly pretty, slightly sweaty face, it felt like they were dancing,
trading the lead back and forth as they lunged and dodged. 
Then, Thomas dodged in a way that forced Newt to put weight on his bad leg to
stay upright. Thomas took advantage of the clumsiness by throwing himself on
the other boy, and they rolled on the ground until Thomas's greater strength
and weight pinned Newt down by his slender wrists, their faces only a couple of
inches apart. 
"I bloody yield." Newt panted, grinning up at Thomas. He could feel the older
boy's slightly minty breath brush over his face, and his eyes could only focus
on long blond eyelashes and wide brown eyes for a moment. He wanted to touch,
but he didn't want to freak Newt out. "Well, get off of me, you heavy shank." 
"Right," Thomas stood up, suddenly feeling embarrassed. 
"I change my mind." Minho commented from the flat rock ten feet away. His voice
was slightly muffled by spaghetti, but that didn't hide his oddly knowing tone.
"If you, Newt, end up marrying anyone, its going to be you, Greenbean."
Wondering how joking the Keeper's words actually were, Thomas hoped his
flushed-from-exertion face hid his blush. He reached out to help Newt up, but
the older boy just rolled his eyes again and stood up by himself.
"Buggin' swell."  
===============================================================================
That night, as Thomas headed for his spot to sleep next to Chuck, he felt a tug
on his shirt.  
"Hey Runner, you sleep over there now." 
It was Newt, his dark eyes and fair hair glinting in the moonlight. Thomas
turned to see a pale arm gesture toward the opposite edge of the field everyone
slept in. 
Though no boy had ever commented on it before Newt, the hierarchy of the Glade
was reflected by where each slept. Those at the top, the Keepers, original
Gladers, and the Runners, slept at one end of the field, while those at the
bottom, Sloppers and Newbies, were toward the other end. Thomas wasn't exactly
fond of the layout because other boys made fun of Chuck enough without needing
physical proof of the food chain.  Also, even though he snored and moved in his
sleep, Chuck was Thomas's first friend, and he didn't want to leave him. He
opened his mouth to protest. Newt, probably sensing his complaint, spoke
quickly.
"It's for convenience. Take it up with Minho's lazy arse if you want him cross
the field of sleeping shucks to wake you up every morning." More
sympathetically, he added, "Chuck can come with you, if he wants to." 
Thomas nodded and felt slightly creepy for being happy to sleep near Newt. Not
that anything could happen, with the older boy probably oblivious to his pining
and with Alby, Minho, and others around. 
Chuck looked surprised when he told him about the development and, somewhat
unsurprisingly, declined to move. "Thanks, but the others won't like that," the
kid looked at Thomas with an endearingly grateful grin, "I like my spot,
anyway."
To his slightly guilty satisfaction, the largest free spot was right next to
Newt. When he got there, older boy looked already half asleep, curled toward
the empty spot and face buried in his pillow. As Thomas spread his sleeping
bag, Newt acknowledged him with a quiet grunt. 
Any type of wooing Newt while sleeping next to him would have to wait, because
Thomas immediately felt groggy and tired and aching the moment he lay down.
Within seconds, sleep overtook him. 
Thomas's dreams were a jumble. He saw flashes of the comatose girl's pale,
pretty face, Ben's crazed, bleeding, green-veined face, and Newt's beautiful,
flushed grinning face as it appeared inches from his. One moment, he was
running from a Griever before being tackled by Ben, and the next, he was lying
between Newt's legs, both of them naked and Thomas's cock enveloped by a
delicious tightness. Then, he was standing before the walls of the Glade,
watching as the concrete and rock grew toward the sky as if alive, drowning out
the flawless blue. Ivy vines crawled around his legs and he flailed, kicking
out frantically to get loose.
Thomas jolted awake and heard a quiet groan of pain next to him.  
"Bloody shucking hell." Newt muttered, sitting up beside him and holding his
knee. Thomas glanced around and noticed that it was still mostly dark, though
he could see a thin line of light peeking out over the wall to the east. Minho
lay not far, snoring loudly.
"Sorry!" Thomas whispered, realizing that his unconscious kicking was why Newt
currently sat wincing next to him.  To his dismay, the leg Newt was holding was
his bad one. "Oh, God, I—"
"Shh! S'alright." Newt interrupted, though his pinched face belied his words.
"It was my fault, I was tryin' to decide if you were having a good dream or bad
dream...if I should wake you up, that is." Newt looked at Thomas
questioningly. 
"A bit of both." He hoped that it was too dark for Newt to see his blush. His
heart was still pounding from his nightmare  of struggling with vines and being
chased by Grievers, but he also could feel a phantom warmth in his groin.
Suddenly, Newt was simultaneously too close and not close enough. Thomas
shifted uncomfortably and sat up straighter the same time Newt moved closer and
reached out with a hand, presumably to pat Thomas on the knee. 
The hand missed, and Thomas felt knuckles brush his half-erection. He gasped at
the spike of pleasure the touch sent, and a distant part of his mind was glad
Minho was snoring so loudly.
"Oh." Newt rapidly pulled away his hand, and Thomas watched his face change
from surprised to mortally embarrassed. "Oh. That kind of good dream, huh?
Shuck, sorry, Tommy, I—"
"Wait, Newt." Unsure of what he was about to do, Thomas grabbed Newt's hand
before it could retreat too far. "I've gotta tell you something." Despite the
dark, he could easily see a golden eyebrow arch at him, though the effect of
incredulousness that Newt was trying to give off was ruined by the blush easily
seen on his smooth, pale complexion. Thomas felt the warmth of hope deep in his
chest. 
"What is it?" Newt prompted hesitantly, and Thomas wondered if he heard
shakiness in his voice.
"It's about my dream." Thomas whispered quickly. "Well, my good dream...it was
about you." 
"Tommy—" Newt's eyes widened at the implication, and he looked cute like that,
really. Thomas interrupted him.
"I really like you, Newt, more than I've liked anyone ever." Thomas paused,
wondering how to rephrase because, technically, Thomas didn't have enough
memories to know if that was the truth, though he could feel it in his heart it
was. His hand was now stroking Newt's, still held in his grip. "Ever since I
came out of the Box, and you helped me and believed me about—mhm!"
Thomas felt Newt's soft lips cover his and responded to the kiss
enthusiastically, wondering if he was dreaming again. It was messy, and their
teeth collided. Thomas didn't remember kissing anyone in particular in his life
before, but he noticed happily that it was clear he had more experience than
the older boy. Newt tasted like toothpaste and something else, something good,
and Thomas licked at the line of Newt's lips, wanting entry into his mouth, but
as suddenly as the kiss began, Newt pulled away.
"Slim it, Greenie." He whispered, though his voice held fondness. "Gonna wake
everyone up." 
"I don't mind. I want you." Thomas's responding whisper was harsh, and Newt put
a hand on his chest, using it as leverage when Thomas's grip tightened.
Somewhere in between, he had pulled the older boy partially on his lap, his
fingers holding Newt's surprisingly narrow waist—were his hands really that
big? They looked huge in comparison to the boy in his embrace. Or maybe Newt
was just too thin. 
Thomas was still hard, and the kiss had done nothing to mitigate that.
"C'mon then." Newt smirked, and Thomas wanted to bite and lick the expression
away. "We've got about an hour before everyone wakes up." He wriggled out of
Thomas's grip and stepped gingerly over Frypan, Zart, and a Runner whose name
Thomas didn't know without checking if Thomas was coming.
Of course, like a seaman enchanted by a Siren, Thomas followed.  
Within minutes, it became clear Newt was leading them toward the clearing in
the Deadheads where they had sparred the day before. It was a good spot, Thomas
realized. The grass was soft, and no one would interrupt them there so early in
the morning.
As soon as they arrived, Thomas pinned Newt with his body and lips against the
nearest tree, hands slipping under the thin tee shirt Newt slept in. He could
feel Newt's abdominal muscles rippling under his grip and other boy's hardness
against his own. When he requested entry this time, Newt parted his lips with a
moan and Thomas licked inside, enjoying the unique, sweet taste of Newt when
the other's tongue greeted his.
"I want to fuck you," Thomas pulled away briefly to mutter against Newt's ear.
"So much." He bit his neck, resisting the temptation to just rip Newt's shirt
off.  A Glade full of teenage boys meant clean, whole clothes were in constant
short supply, and the second-in-command would not appreciate the waste of
resources. Instead, he pulled away just long enough to tug Newt's shirt over
his head and to allow Newt to help Thomas remove his own shirt. 
"Mhm," was all he got in response. Thomas then paused for a moment, just to
admire the pale smoothness of Newt's skin in the dim light of the sunrise,
holding him against the tree with hands on Newt's narrow hips. 
"You're so beautiful." Thomas whispered breathlessly. "I've never seen anyone
so beautiful."
"Ain't so bad looking yourself." Newt's voice sounded just as breathless, but
it carried a note of impatience, a feeling Thomas suddenly shared when he felt
fingers tugging at the elastic of his sweatpants. Soon, both were naked, and
Thomas was reminded distinctly of his dream, except now it was clear he was not
dreaming. Every touch felt a thousand times more sensitive, and Newt's lips
were electric on his. This was real.
At Newt's complaint about the rough scratch of tree bark on his bare skin, they
moved to the grass. Newt sat facing Thomas on Thomas's lap, thighs wrapped
around Thomas's waist. He moaned almost at the same time Newt did when their
erections slotted against each other. Thomas tilted his head up to kiss the
older boy deeply and nip at swollen red lips before sliding his mouth down to
suck and bite bruises into the pale skin of Newt's neck. 
"Tommy," Newt gasped, fingers digging into Thomas's dark brown hair. "Don't...I
can't buggin', ah, cover those—" 
The complaint sent a surge of satisfaction through Thomas, and he smiled
against Newt's neck and ran his tongue along the slightly salty skin. His voice
came out rougher than he expected. "What if I didn't want you to cover them?"
He shifted so that his hardened, slightly leaking cock rubbed against Newt's
ass. 
Thomas gentled his touches anyway. He wrapped one hand around a skinny hip,
thumb stroking the skin stretched over it. The other hand wandered farther
behind and lower, until it was close enough that a finger rubbed against the
Newt's hole, which automatically clenched.
Newt's hands, clutching Thomas's shoulders, tightened their grips. 
"Have you done this before?" Thomas suddenly stopped and asked, his husky tone
managing to sound concerned even with lips brushing against Newt's ear.
"No. Of course not." Newt laughed somewhat humorlessly despite having pupils
dilated by either lust or the dim morning or both. "Not that I can shucking
remember, anyway. I know how it works." He ground down on Thomas's lap as if to
prove it, and Thomas closed his eyes and groaned at the friction against his
cock, reaching forward with his both hands now to prevent further movement.
When the swell of pleasure passed, he reopened his eyes to see Newt raising an
eyebrow. Thomas frowned. "I think I've done it with a girl before." He had
vague memories of having sex and how it worked, but he couldn't remember with
whom. The movements felt familiar, but he couldn't tell why. He tried not to
dwell on the fact he had forgotten even the face of someone he had known so
intimately. 
Thomas supposed it made sense that Newt hadn't done it before. The older boy
had entered the Maze two years ago, when he was only fourteen or fifteen.
Thomas was currently at least sixteen. 
But more importantly: "Is there anything we could use as lube?"
Newt slipped out of Thomas's lap and retrieved his pants, pulling a white tube
out of the pocket. "Petroleum jelly," he held it up as he got closer, and
Thomas could see it labeled so by plain black letters. "We requested it for
Runners to heal scratches faster." Newt grinned.
Before Newt could settle completely back onto Thomas's lap, Thomas tipped them
over so that he was on top, Newt's long, slender legs spread to accommodate his
waist. With one arm propping himself up, he slid his other hand along Newt's
lean, muscular arm until he reached his hand and plucked the white tube out.  
"Warm it up a little," Newt gasped between kisses. Indeed, petroleum jelly was
thicker than what Thomas imagined was optimal for lube. The translucent gel was
surprisingly difficult to squeeze out. He rubbed it in his palm as instructed
and then reached down, between their bodies and behind, to slip a finger into
Newt's hole. The boy underneath him twitched in response and then shivered.
"Shuck, your finger's cold." 
Thomas barely paid attention, too distracted by the heat, how tight Newt was.
He was definitely clenching down, regardless of whether he was conscious of it.
At this rate, Thomas was worried he would hurt Newt. 
"Relax," he muttered, kissing Newt's neck to hopefully distract him as Thomas
moved his finger a little, pressing in to the knuckle. His own arousal felt
distant as he tried to stretch Newt and spread the now warm and slick petroleum
jelly inside him.  Newt looked as if he was trying to hide discomfort, shifting
slightly underneath him. 
Thomas pulled his finger out, coated a second one generously, and slipped both
fingers in. He waited a moment in case Newt needed more time to adjust, and
then he spread the fingers, trying to reach as far as he could with the
makeshift lube. Newt suddenly tensed beneath him and moaned. 
"You okay?" Thomas stopped moving and looked into Newt's dark, wide, dilated
eyes.
"That, ah, felt good." Newt's expression was an odd mix of surprise and
arousal, and he shifted his hips as if to encourage Thomas's fingers.
"Keep...keep going."
Thomas eventually added a third finger, and Newt was whining, digging his
fingers into Thomas's back and leaving red, crescent-shaped scratches. "You
okay?" Thomas repeated, though his voice was low and rough now. "May I...?"
"Yes, p-please." Newt groaned as Thomas twisted his fingers again. "Bloody do
it." 
Thomas pulled his fingers out, lined himself up, and pressed in slowly. After
that, he didn't have many coherent thoughts, besides the struggle to keep it
slow, gentle as Newt winced at the new intrusion and about how god, so tight
Newt was. Thomas hadn't felt this good since as long as he could remember,
since he entered the Glade. Between the heavenly sounds of Newt grunting and
moaning under him and watching Newt's lovely, flushed face, Thomas didn't
expect to last long. He reached down to stroke Newt's erection and relished the
sound it drew. His thoughts scattered again when Newt clenched down on his cock
in response.
As Thomas's thrusts became more desperate, he could feel a heat building in
between them, one that burned hotter than the fake sun rising beyond the Maze's
walls ever could. It was a pleasant, beautiful heat, light and comforting
instead of oppressive. It felt good, and Thomas never wanted it to be over.
Newt came first, and Thomas climaxed inside of Newt shortly after, pulling out
and collapsing on top of him.
They lay there together for a while, Newt absentmindedly stroking Thomas's
back, neither willing to get up and move despite the danger of being discovered
as sunrise became morning. Thomas pulled back for another kiss, this time slow
but just as deep. 
After pulling away, Newt moved a little from under him, as if it was possible
to slip away from where he was pinned. 
"Get your shuck arse off me. I need a buggin' shower." Newt said, voice gentle
in contrast to the words. Thomas felt a hand stroke through his hair. He didn't
want to move from where he was, splayed comfortably over Newt, limbs and
thoughts relaxed like he could never have hoped for since waking up in the Box.
It didn't feel like the Glade here with Newt. He felt he could escape, not
through decoding maps or a secret exit in the Maze, but through the boy
underneath him. 
"Please, Tommy," Newt pressed his lips against Thomas's forehead when he didn't
budge. "The Doors are going to open soon, and you can't be late." Newt's voice
was warm and full of understanding, as if he could read Thomas's mind and
didn't want to return to life in the Glade either. Also, a subtle note of
sadness had returned to his voice, one that Thomas had only recently learned to
detect. 
He could sense Newt was tired, and not the sore kind of tired that came from a
day of running or ordering around Gladers. It was a weariness with life, like
something was eroding away at Newt's will to live. 
Thomas knew exactly what that thing was and held Newt tighter, vowing to get
Newt out of the Glade, out of the Maze at any cost. They would go somewhere
safe and free, somewhere they could watch a real sunrise tucked against each
other.
After hesitating for another moment, he rolled off of Newt and reached down to
help the older boy up. Newt took his hand and stumbled to his feet, wincing.
Thomas kept a hold on his forearm. 
"I'm sorry," Thomas said, a spark of guilt tearing through him. He remembered
trying to be careful and slow, but his brain had been muddled by lust. "Are you
hurt?"
"Fine." Newt gritted out. Thomas noticed Newt's come was on both their
stomachs, and that must be Thomas's leaking out from between Newt's thighs.
Reddish marks were scattered on Newt's shoulders and neck, and Thomas felt a
possessive surge of satisfaction at that.  
They both dressed quickly, though Newt moved more gingerly, to Thomas's guilt. 
At the edge of the Deadheads, they parted ways, Newt limping toward the showers
and Thomas heading to his sleeping bag to retrieve his Runner pack. 
===============================================================================
"You know, if you ever hurt him, I'll kill you." Minho said thoughtfully
between bites of his sandwich. They were sitting on the floor of the Maze,
backs leaning against a vine-covered wall as they ate lunch. His tone was
casual, meant for commenting on Frypan's cooking rather than threatening
Thomas. But when Thomas looked up in surprise to meet Minho's eyes, the other
boy's expression was dead serious. 
Before that, the only indication Minho gave to show he knew what happened
between him and Newt was a knowing, teasing glance that morning as the Runners
prepared for the day together in the Map Room. The Keeper had proceeded to give
a brief, a not-so-inspiring speech about the importance of finding a way out of
the Glade and then ordered the group away to wait at their respective places
for the opening of the Doors. 
Now, Minho was watching him, gauging his reaction. 
"I won't hurt him ever." Thomas replied fervently. "I'll make sure nothing
will." 
Minho scrutinized him a bit more and looked satisfied. "Good," he grinned, and
Thomas was hit with the understanding that Minho and Newt had been friends for
two years before he arrived in the Glade. Minho more than likely knew how and
why Newt got his limp and why Newt hated the Glade and feared the Maze so much.
Minho wanted just as badly as Thomas to keep him safe.
Thomas was prepared to make good on his promise. 
As he ran behind Minho in the maze he felt uncomfortably familiar with, Thomas
decided he would never be content living in the routine of the Glade. More
determined than ever to get them out of the Maze and confront the Creators, he
kept the image of Newt burned in his mind—of that beautiful boy laughing,
carefree and happy, if only for a moment.
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