TEMP-HIATUS

[ascven]

ON TEMP-HIATUS. WILL CONTINUE TO RESPOND TO THREADS WITH @unstoryteller AS I WANT TO. OTHER THAN THAT I’LL BE BACK SOON

Independent & Selective M I N H O From the maze runner Written by: Toby / 24 / GMT

EST  : 17/02/21

BOOK & MOVIE BASED

                                            RULES | VERSES

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Fingers wrap closed around stale fries, the salt granules sticking to damp skin long after he’d swallowed them. No hand, then. It was for the best. He really did have to get around to suffocating that last shred of hope he held. It served nobody. Not Newt, and certainly not Minho. Perhaps, he could take the rare opportunity of being surrounded by dirt to bury it six feet beneath the undergrowth. A far more fitting place. Minho definitely wouldn’t find it there, because he was right, him and Thomas bore an immortality that would bind them beneath tangerine skies forever more. But Newt ? Newt would find that hope again. He was sure of it, making it the perfect hiding place.

Eyes fall shut, curtaining his brief stint with apotheosis. The technicolour clouds above weren’t a fitting canvas to paint thoughts upon. He needed nihility. “ I don’t think you mean that. “ It was a bluff, and Newt had no qualms with calling it. There was a definite problem between him and Minho. He’d felt it at breakfast, and he’d felt it an hour ago when Minho had accidentally brought it up again. Minho wanted to forget, and it was, unfortunately, in his nature to not allow that pleasantry to either of them. He could act as natural and shit eating as he’d like, Newt saw through it.

Something was . . . off, between them.

Newt twirls a blade of grass absentmindedly around his finger tip, the sharp edges slicing through epidermis. Reminding him to move his injured hand from the ground before his bandage disintegrated with the dew. Through closed eyes, he can feel the shift in presence as Minho comes to rest beside him once more. “ I know. “ Spoken too quickly, cutting off the end of Minho’s sentence and being chased by a chuckle. Things were weird between them, yeah, but Newt wasn’t going to let Minho push him away because of that. It was unfair. “ I don’t need reminding of my own bloody freewill, Minho. “ It was lighthearted, and he accentuated this by ripping up turf and tossing it into his friends general direction.

Totally not because he had to exercise this alleged free will, Newt sat up right. “ ——Why would I wanna leave, anyways ? “ Accusatory, though Newt doesn’t stay around for an explanation. He’d already gotten to his feet, and nudged Minho with his foot to do the same. They were leaving, not Newt, not Minho. Together. Maybe, it was just the airs fault that things had to be weird. It was the trees, and the wildlife. Maybe a fault of the dandelions and the daisies. They could all hold Newt’s blame.

“ Ya’ remember that park we used to go to ? —Playground, whatever. “ That was their next destination.

Motionless, Minho allows himself to be buried beneath the storm of poaceae, green blades spiralling in his vision, sorted in array across his chest. ( Newt had a habit of throwing nature at him, it was just something he did. ) He listens as Newt cements his place within Minho’s morning, playful words and reassurance enough for him to stop shoving neon exit signs in front of his friend. For the time being, at least, the two of them could get drunk on insomnia and kill time together. The kick to his shin comes at the same moment as an airy tickle across his hand, Minho glances at it, watching a lone ant crawl across the bruised skin and curve his knuckles. He brushes it away and stands up, grass cascading from his hoodie as he does. It was for the best that Newt wanted to leave, the earth had began to reclaim him, and Minho didn’t like it one bit. Somewhere within the last few minutes their clearing of solitude had began to decay, an overgrown cemetery in place of the mirage. A laugh, dishevelled hair and a smile are all he has to offer Newt. “ ‘Course I do, “

On to different things. As always.

One arm gets strung around Newt’s shoulder, lazy and dropped after a couple of steps. He had the feeling Newt wanted to talk, discuss the air between them and clear it before they killed any more gardens,  —— but that was stupid, Minho wasn’t about to tell his friend how he felt, nor was he going to explain why it felt so right to fall asleep pressed up against him. It was an intangible conversation, one that couldn’t happen unless forced out of him with grasping hands. Minho would sooner get on his knees and pray to the old gods than verbally admit he was in love with Newt. 

But he was in love with him.

Something about the breaking of dawn overshadowed his thoughts and made them okay to his own ears, they had a far more impressive picture above them than a single man’s bottled emotions. So yeah, Minho did love Newt. And it was none of his business. He’d have to put up with that or tear the truth from his lungs, through sinew and bone with a knife. “ Why the trip down memory lane ? “ not that he wasn’t excited to sit in the old swing set. So many knee-grazes had occurred on and around that thing, the rubber tarmac still held his blood “ Ya gettin’ all sentimental on me ? “ he speaks as they walk, hands tucked safely in his pocket and eyes forward. Not avoiding Newt’s gaze, but definitely not approaching it.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Newt had climbed all the way to the top of the hill he sat upon, and expended every ounce of his willpower in doing so. He was fully prepared to die up there, if the morning called for it. So hearing Minho try and deny him that set off a flair of incredulous petulance. Eyes narrow to counter the challenge, but before he can protest, Minho had, rightfully so, already backed down. Something which is met with a satisfied smirk that tries to be gracious in its triumph. “Yeah, yeah. “ Newt dismisses him with a head shake of his own, shaky breath cutting off a sharp inhale. How long did two broken fingers take to heal ? A couple weeks ? A month ?  Either way, he was saddled with this now, so it was time to suck it up. Unfortunately, Minho was right, he did have to take it slow, and it killed him. He wasn’t ready for another recovery period, because he’d barely left the last one.

Funny, really.  

Right. Beans and toast. Yeah, Minho had given him all the easiest jobs, but it was okay. Newt picked his battles, and that wasn’t one he felt like having today. The kitchen was abundant in gaiety, basked in a golden glow that could put even the eggs Minho was cooking to shame. Newt wouldn’t ruin it. Minho could keep his carefully curated vibes. It was good to see him happy. It lit up Newt’s apathy as if it were flammable, a stroke of a match that ignited charcoal into the warm glows of a flame. Full of affection and endearment and life and an untitled feeling that felt like it’d burst from his stomach. Beans. That wasn’t the feeling. Newt just needed to stop fawning over his best-friend ( ! ! ! ) like an idiot and do his job. It was hard to wipe the smile free, though. Minho was making it hard with his stupid music and cooking, offering him a glimpse into a future he couldn’t have. Newt would tell himself to get over it already, but the thought of getting over it felt emptier than what he had now.

“ Righty-o. “

A flick of the wrist switches the hob on, and a problem is discovered immediately. A problem which exists in the unity between a can opener, one hand, and a can of beans. Ugh. The items are passed to Minho ( all except his hand ) with an eye roll. He could open them whilst Newt got to work on popping toast into a toaster that smelt like it was seconds away from combustion. “ Ya’ kitchens on its way out, mate, “ All faults of Minho’s, whom he promptly collects his now opened tins from and sets to work heating them in a saucepan. “ I give it a year, tops, before ya’ catch something on fire and push the building to the streets. “ An elbow nudges its way into his friends side, demanding some room at the stovetop be cleared for him. If anybody were to set their kitchen on fire, his money would always be on Minho. Tommy had it in him, but Newt had a feeling Minho would still beat him to it. He loved that about them.

Maybe Minho’s carefully curated vibes were working on him.

Can is taken without second thought nor glance, careful to keep any pity from his features as hands get to work on twisting the cold metal open. Newt would set HIM on fire if he didn’t play his cards right. Every day was a dance when your best-friend had an intense desire to be independent and hawk eyes always watching.  “ My kitchen is in perfect shape, “ ( Newt, you’re on your goddamn way out. ) beans are passed back, and then he returns to his eggs and bacon as they sizzled in the pan, spitting boiling oil over weathered ceramic. Okay, maybe his kitchen had seen better days. Whatever. Minho’s cheerful smile doesn’t falter as he grasps the handle, jostling about their breakfast, the edges turning crispy golden brown. It smelt so good it almost cured his hangover. Almost. “ Shut uuuup, “ the jab is returned with extra force in defence of his living conditions. 

Holy and unattainable or not, Newt would still get his ass kicked. With an eyeroll, Minho moves over a few inches, making space for them to weave around each other as they made breakfast. The whole ordeal felt weirdly domestic. He made sure to bask in the feeling while he had the chance. “ If my house goes up where would you mooches spend all ya time, “ if it wasn’t Newt, Thomas was there. Minho was hardly ever alone, and that was exactly how he liked it. His home had become the central point for their trio, years ago they’d had their own individual keys cut. The two of them were welcome to come and go as they pleased. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t ripe material to mock them for. A win-win situation for Minho. 

Pan is turned off at the dial and removed from the heat. Minho grabs two plates from the cupboard to their left ( not the fucked one ) and then sets them on the surface, dividing the bacon and spatula scooping up an egg for each, the bubbly white in stark contrast to the orange china it laid upon. It was very American. Butter and a knife are laid out and he’s at Newt’s shoulder, snatching the toast up at the ‘pop’ before he can make a grab for it. No way was he doing that one-handed. Two slices each, placed on the chopping board and buttered messily, ignoring any complaints from his companion. Everything was plated, except for the beans. “ C’mon, I'm on the verge of death, “  he could have been, alcohol poisoning, it crept up on you. He cemented his point by dramatically leaning against the countertop, one hand posed over his forehead. Beans. Plates. Now.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Water blossoms through the fabric of joggers, dew drops sticking jersey fabric to legs and chilling them through. A little piece of reality sneaking in to remind him that laying in the grass really wasn’t as romantic or as life changing as he’d hoped. Still, Newt refused to move. The tickle of flora against his palm as he curled his fingers made up for it. And the sky? Yeah that definitely made up for it, too. If he let the trees drift away from him, focusing his attention only on ombre clouds, it almost felt as if he was falling. Looking downwards at the world below. A god, unconfined and demiurgic. Hand pulls loose a bun, allowing blond strands to cascade against the greenery ( and allowing him to lay flat without the equivalent of a rock digging into his skull ).

The transfixion doesn’t last, greener pastures await Newt, though perhaps more impractical ones. Attention is finally surrendered fully to Minho, eyes staying locked to the heavens above for fear of meeting his friends gaze. ——Actually, that was a lie, he didn’t fear Minho’s gaze, he feared his own, and what truths might fall loose from it. “ Well . . . Is it like, a good not sure ? At least ? “ Man, he worried about him. If he could suffer all of Minho’s woes for him, Newt would do it without hesitation. He didn’t deserve to have a single one. Palm outstretches towards Minho, hitting him lightly against the knee. A request for a fry, obviously. Though . . . If Minho wanted to hold it instead . . . Newt constantly held out hope that would eventually choke him.

He could live an entire life in those what ifs.

A sigh, the wildlife breathing a freshness into his lungs like none other. Rejuvenating the wilted stems and dried petals of every flower that found its home there. Probably choking them with even more pollution, too . . . Ah the city. Newt chuckles, low and weak. “ I think . . . A beer, and Tommy’s, the last thing ya’ need right now. —— Bloody deadly combination, that. “ If Minho wanted to destroy his life tonight, beer would be the gasoline, and Thomas would be the match. Something told Newt that he didn’t want that, though, not tonight. Otherwise he wouldn’t of called him. Minho would’ve just gone for a run and kept rampaging until there was nothing left to pillage. Newt was the gallons of water that sunk you to sobriety, and the bread that every drunk girl swore by. He was control and safety. “ I’d offer to buy us some, but ‘m not so sure that’s the best idea, you ‘n’ me. “ A joke, or was he stating the blatantly obvious? The last time they’d gotten drunk had been, interesting. Newt didn’t regret it, nor have any qualms about repeating it, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Minho did. Which, of course, gave him every right to prod fun at it. It was either that, or wallow in the lack of reciprocation until it killed the both of them.

Soggy fries are deposited into his friends reaching palm, salt and oil lingering on Minho’s fingers as he drops them. He wipes them clean on the grass to his side, tainting nature as all humans did. Newt was right, Thomas didn’t have impulse control in the same way he himself didn’t, without Newt around to balance them out... well, they’d had some very interesting nights together.  Unforgettable, if it weren’t for the alcohol that clouded dauntless moments, forever stolen from his memory. If Minho held a knife then Thomas had a whetstone. A dangerous laugh, deep and laced with humour, as if recalling every stupid thing they’d ever done. “ Me ‘n Thomas ain’t died yet, ” and they never would. Immortality was rooted within the bones of men in their youth. 

Heart trips against his ribcage, steady beat stumbling over Newt’s words. Jaw clenches and un-clenches, turning to stare at Newt. To the average onlooker, he was relaxed, nested within soft grass, but in reality he had one hand dangling over a sea of sharks, daring sharp teeth to bite. “ I don’t see a problem with me ‘n you, “ the sharks would always bite, it was what sharks did when provoked. He lets his words settle in the air, pausing for just long enough before continuing to speak, because they held a different, although secret, meaning to the rest of his sentence. “ Couple o’ bruises, broken bones. no biggie, “ the smirk that lit up his eyes was all for show. Minho always smiled when his life was going to shit. This time it was from the captivating way sun beams were slicing across Newt’s collarbones. It drops as he returns his gaze to the sky, neck tilted and cheeks hollow. The sun-rise was nearing it’s peak, colour dripping from it in buckets. It somehow held less shades of orange than the man next to him did.

A sigh, food removed from his lap, and he’s laying down again, flopping against the earth, letting it hold his weight for him. It was clear he wasn’t happy, but Newt knew that. They were only within their aubade because Minho wasn’t happy. But he wasn’t sad. He just existed, and it wasn’t enough for him to only exist. “ Ya know you can leave if you wanna, right ? Ya don’t gotta pull an all-nighter just cause I’m dumb enough to, “ he wasn’t pushing him away, truthfully, it was just Newt had no obligations to him. Maybe if he left, Minho could stay and nap within the cold embrace of soil and dew. Probably get mugged though,  —— it was Denver.  But he did want Newt to stay.

Really, Minho always wanted Newt to stay.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

The chuckle that fills the kitchen, echoing against his own, is a great relief. Normalcy. Maybe it didn’t matter that they’d spent the evening obliterating boundaries and redefining the dictionary definition of friendship. They could snap back. They could. Rewind time to a day prior, before they’d committed a massacre between them. Minho could forget the evening, and Newt could forget the stupid idea that he’d ever get redamancy.

Brown eyes move from his fingers, to Minho, and back down to his fingers. Pools of red swum beneath the surface of skin that had swollen stiff. They shook, and when they shook they hurt more. “Yeah . . .” For Minho’s sake, he attempts to laugh. The predicament he’d found himself in had been a whole lot funnier last night, with the aid of alcohol and unkempt nervous energy. Today, it was grim, all humour lost to practicality. All Newt thought about now was working and the tasks of everyday life, and how soul destroyingly difficult both of those would be with one hand. “ It was brutal, alright. “

The gift of peas are accepted with an absent mind. Newt far too preoccupied with the man giving him them and his eyes of eigrengrau. They mimicked the night sky. The morning catchlights crowning them with their very own moon. God it wasn’t fair. A nod of gratitude, and he forcibly snaps his focus elsewhere. The bag is dabbed gingerly against his knuckles, turning the bandage soggy and limp. Memories come flooding in faster than he’d like to admit. Fuck. Teeth grit in response, and eyes narrow to the floor. A bag of frozen peas and two broken bones, that was all it took, huh? Newt drops the bag against the countertop, though he has every intention to come back to it. Good hand fishes through the freezer until he finds a bag of mixed veg, which is promptly tossed towards Minho. “ You too. —— Really though, your cupboard was the bloody victim. “ Minho was never seeing his deposit, Newt was sure of it.

The ice is back against his fingers, and Newt chokes himself on his own preconceived masculinity, refusing to remove it despite the number it was doing to his heart rate. His options were to take time off work, go to the hospital, or suck it up and deal with it. Therefore, he only really had one option. The impending doom and subsequent tremors would have to be endured. “ Could do breakfast. “ So casual in comparison to how he felt. When was the last time he’d eaten? Breakfast, yesterday? The pizza had been skipped, lunch had been forgotten. No wonder he wasn’t feeling great.

“ Yeah. Breakfast. “ Peas are set down, and Newt gulps the remainder of his coffee. Hand claps against thigh, and he’s up and ready to make himself useful. Maybe a distraction would be good, anyway, and he’d worked through far worse in the past.

“ C’mon then, boss. Set me to work. Whatcha’ need doin’ ? What we makin’ ? “ A slew of questions which could rival even Thomas.

Through trained reflexes the icy bag is caught in his uninjured hand, swiped out of the air with a thud. Man, between the two of them they were running his freezer low. Perhaps he’d go shopping later today, get out of the house and away from the mess, both physical and mental. “ It’s seen worse, “ a shrug and the veg is pressed against the bruise that flooded his skin, glancing over at his cupboard like it was nothing. It was just history, evidence that he’d been there and felt something. That was all,  ——— it could be fixed. Maybe Gally would help him install a new panel if he sucked up to him enough. 

Or maybe that would lead to TWO broken cupboards and a few more bones.

“ No——————   “ stern look filters through narrowed eyes, ice pack placed on the surface as he cuts himself off. For fucks sake, if he denied Newt’s offer of help then the blond was only going to internalise it and feel useless. Minho knew him, he needed to work through the injury or succumb to it.  “ Okay fine, but be careful, ya gotta take it slow, “  fingers rake through dark locks, concern replacing irritation with a headshake. “ I mean it, I see you using your bad hand and I'll smack you, “ tough love. As the king of stacking wound upon wound, he wasn't one to talk, nor was he one to take his own advice, but Newt would. He had no choice.

A hum of thought. “ I’m skippin’ running today, so I want greasy food. Full breakfast typa-beat, “ phone is pulled from his pocket, dwindling at half-charge having been forgotten during the night. Minho opens Spotify and shuffles his playlist until it lands on something calmer than his usual workout tune. It was vibey, it was nice, it was perfect for breakfast, glass-filtered sun and very good, if rocky company. 

And it didn’t drive daggers into his throbbing skull.

As Minho clangs about getting out frying pans and bacon from the fridge, the prior night slowly slipped away from his mind, allowing him to simply exist without the nagging dread of ruined friendships. Maybe once he’d filled his tummy it would creep back into his life, but for now, for a small moment, he was just focused on feeding the pair of them. Resurrection through fried foods. “ Getcha butt over here, you’re on toast and bean duty, “ 

Two jobs that could be done one-handed. 

Newt knew his way around Minho’s kitchen, so he doesn’t bother to supply information on where his tins and bread are hidden. He didn’t need to, they’d done this time and time again before, just with slightly different undertones to the room. Instead, Minho sets to cooking bacon and eggs and lightly jamming along to his music as he does, fingers tapping against the frying pan handle in synchronisation. He was happy, if a little dishevelled and hungover.  

Hopefully, Newt could be the same. 

All things aside.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Another crisis averted. Another episode complete in the daily damage mitigation that laid the foundation of their friendship. As much a foundation as the constant need to cause damage in the first place was. They were both as bad as each other. Minho caused damage because of, well, who Minho was. And Newt ? Newt caused damage because he liked who Minho was. He liked it too much. More than he was supposed to.

And so, sure, he’d fixed Minho’s mistake of a lifetime; flirting with Newt.

But was the pyrrhic victory really worth it ?

Lungs breath in, allowing fresh air and moisture to fill them to their limit. With the release, Newt breaths out every negative and nasty thought he’d ever had. Allowing them to rot bark and barren the soil. His gift to Denver for all that Denver had given him. Worn out trainers kick against grass and dirt and cigarette butts, becoming increasingly waterlogged as they went. Minho is followed without question. A deed which is heavily rewarded when he leads them into a small clearing, abundant in wildlife and greenery. Man, Newt needed this. It wasn’t somewhere he’d think to take himself, because it wasn’t purposeful nor convenient, but it sure was gorgeous. Full of life and empty of surveillance. With good company too. “ Pretty. “

Brown eyes glue to Minho as he falls into a bed of grass, messy hair spilling across features and activating Newt’s self-destructive tendencies. He wanted so desperately to sweep strands of eigengrau back into place. He doesn’t, Maybe, if he was drunk and sitting on the edge of a panic attack again, he would’ve done it. But he wasn’t, so Instead, Newt comes to lay beside his friend, dodging a fry as he does so. Maybe they couldn’t embrace each other, but at least the same dirt embraced the both of them. “ You have a bloody way with words, you do. “

Balance.

Smile is offered to the heavens above, the sky enveloping him as he stares into it. It reminded him of Minho. Not because it was beautiful, though it was, and so was he, but because it bore a striking resemblance to the bruising on his knuckles. The sky had a blush pink underpainting,  the perfect backdrop for scattered stratus clouds, each of varying shades of blue and purple. At the farthest corners of his vision, hints of yellow even snuck in. It was shit like this and days like these that made everything seem sorta worth it.

“ How ya’ feelin’ now ? “

Dewy stalks of grass brush up against Minho’s jawline as he reposes and stares up at the sky, watching pastels become more and more defined with passing minutes. A deep breath in, fresh and rejuvenating, imposing youth back into lungs that adolescence had buried. “ I feel...  ——— “ like the void had been filled ? No, not quite, almost.  What was a word for when you’d found something but it wasn’t exactly what you’d gone out to find ? He felt at peace within their seclusion, yet his mind still itched for a new experience. The sky was pretty, but Minho wanted to reach out and crush the last remaining stars between his fists and feel the supernova burn his skin as they died. “  ———— not sure, actually, “ it wasn’t an answer to Newt’s question, but it was the only one Minho could voice without his friend thinking he was on something.

Unfortunately, he was sober.

Head turns to face Newt, honey locks playing a symphony against pale skin. Minho wanted to reach out and touch, he wasn’t quite the stars in the sky but he was close as anyone could be. The apple in their Garden of Eden. Why did it have to be Newt ? Why couldn’t Minho want literally anyone else, it was near impossible to place his affections elsewhere. A sigh, merging with the summer cicadas that sung their world awake.  He’d already tried a thousand times over with a thousand different people,  ———— not one of them fucked him up like just looking at Newt did.

Mouth parts to speak, to say something stupid to his intangible friend, and then he closes it with a swallow of petals. Sitting up, the orange and pink mosaic above no longer interesting enough, he crosses his legs beneath him and pulls the McDonalds bag into the nook created. His coffee is popped out of the cardboard holder and the sickly sweet latte is chugged back, drowning any parlous words that resided in his throat. 

“ We need’a bring Tommyboy and a few beers down here at some point, “ it was one of Denver’s few safe zones, away from the crime and ugliness the concrete jungle was ripe with. Maybe with Thomas by his side Minho would feel less free to throw up all of his feelings. He was dangerously close to upending himself and letting his emotions paint the clearing to match the sky, because no one was around to stop him. 

Someone needed to hit him over the head with a rock, and fast.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

The world around him slows to a still. Denver, the perfect diorama for a moment encapsulated in time. In front of him, Minho was spinning on his heels, walking backwards against the night until he’d fallen into the week prior. A slow motion car crash springs to mind, because that was exactly what it was. Hell, that was exactly what any situation in which Minho was situated eventually became to Newt. It was always a deadly combination of his own calm and Minho’s calamity. Teeth clench, grinding down until they’ve created sinkholes against his jawline. The desire to react with some form of an upheaval is promptly swallowed down. Newt wasn’t about to yell at him, nor was he about to confess every stupid flowery thought he’d ever had about Minho just to try and get him to shut up for once. No reaction was the best reaction ( but god did he want to do both those things ). It wasn’t really fair that he’d bring up that night, Newt hadn’t been in a good way. It was hardly fodder to fuel fires against him with.

But yeah, he’d enjoyed himself, shoot him for it.

In a world where nobody could lie, Newt would definitely be reduced to a spiralling mess right now. Fortunately for him, his heart-rate seemed certain that Minho was joking. Perhaps more certain than Newt himself was, because it remained steady despite his nagging doubts about the situation. Hm. Humour or redundancy? Humour or redundancy? Which would improve the situation and turn it around for the better ? Tongue darts between teeth, eyes narrowing to Minho for the split second they got before he was turning again. Spilling coffee and pride as he went.

Newt’s decision was suddenly an incredibly easy one.

A hearty chuckle resonates against the wind, eyes loaded with the ammo Minho had fed him. Tongue clicks, arm coming to rest around his friends shoulders. “ Smooth. “ Stated as a matter of fact. Maybe, Newt had been a little scared of Minho stepping so close to the truth. Now, that fear was gone. If the man couldn’t even walk down the street, he sure as shit wasn’t gonna accidentally stumble upon Newt’s verity. “ Some bloody catch you are. “ He was joking, but Minho was a catch, and it killed him. Newt could never fucking compete.

The man is released into the parks embrace instead. Far worthier a competitor than Newt would ever be. Damp grass squelches against his soles, and it takes every instinct in him not to flop down against it. Allowing the cool blades and dew drops to consume him and ground him back into the evening once and for all.

“ Where’d ya’ wanna go ?”

Arm around tense shoulders encapsulates him, embarrassment diminishing under the weight. It was okay. He was okay. Newt was okay. They ... were okay. No amount of detached nights and foolish comments could take them down, their friendship had seen too much and endured.  A shudder, played as a response to the cold atmosphere. “ Funny, “ it wasn’t. It was. Minho wanted to lean in, to place his head against Newt’s shoulder and rest there, ignorant of the open space around them. The severing of touch is nothing but divine intervention, cutting through his elevated emotions and stopped him from pouring gasoline, canister pocketed for later use.

The park, what a welcome distraction to an careless arsonist. 

“ This way. “ 

Running trainers tread against green, well kept and short, moisture seeping through the fabric until his feet were damp. Blisters, fun. Work on Monday was going to suck. Minho leads Newt, king of the world until their surroundings are more rural and overgrown, tall grass-seed and dandelions ripe amongst a clearing that had surely been forgotten by your average dog-walker. Aged oaks frame them, the rising sun peeking through diaphanous leaves and a insignificant breeze. Perfect. 

Minho places their coffee and McDonalds amongst the dirt, letting the earth act as a table for glutton. A glance at the sky, the gradient slowly incorporating more orange and pink as time ticked by. A show he’d seen often, morning jogs turning into picturesque adventures, a blip in the pressures of society. No gym, no textbooks, just his time to be alone, but not feel it. The exact place to have Newt by his side. A glance at his companion, smile elysian, and then he lays down into nature’s sea. Something about the smell of damp dirt felt like home to him, as if his bones itched to belong to it, to be reclaimed by moss and mushroom spores until he was nothing but scratched ink in a botanical compendium.

“ Getcha stupid ass down here before you miss the sunrise, “ what a poet he was.

Two fries are pried from the paper bag next to him, one sliced between teeth, the second thrown towards his friend. Hands fall to his sides, neck tilted towards the infinite blue as it blossomed into obsidian. 

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

The sound of the kettle is sweet in the silence of the morning. Comforting, filling his head with expanding foam and crushing all thoughts against bone. Thinking hurt a little too much right now. The space behind eyelids was a pressurised can, ready to burst at the first sign of exertion. Even worse was the intangible pain that would surely come with anything Newt cared to think about right now. The evening. Minho. Newt and Minho. His numb fingers and his numb leg. The ghost of Minho’s arm still encompassing his waist. Glazed vision skims across the sink, basking in the dappled light as it hit fresh water drops. He thought about all of those things ( So much for the kettle. )

Ah. Swearing. Bird song in the morning.  

Minho was awake.

He had either slept through all of the ruckus — a miracle, if he did — or he had chosen an appropriate amount of time to pretend to be asleep before ‘waking’ up. Newt really didn’t fault him. He would’ve done exactly the same. Back is turned to the doorway as fingers work on filling cups with instant coffee and sugar. A shot, would be nice in there too. Hair of the dog. Though, Newt was certain they’d downed everything with an alcohol content in sight, so maybe not. Water and steam rush into the cups in equal proportions. When he turns his gaze back towards the door, Minho greets him, and his gaze is forced to bear the burden of considering the sight. Minho, kinged a god by the silk touch of the golden hour. Hair slept into a disarray, falling messy above dark circles and kind eyes.

The light that kinged Newt was entirely born of brimstone.

A sigh rushes in, filling his chest with as much potential as the morning, and when it’s finally released, so is Minho. Brown eyes turning to the fridge to finish their coffees. “ You look bloody fresh. “ It wasn’t sarcastic, though it would be taken as such, so Newt allowed the words their freedom. Milk is poured times two, swirling ribbons through black coffee. Newt hands Minho his, and proceeds to dutifully sip his own against the countertop again. This wasn’t going to be awkward. It wasn’t going to be awkward. Things were consciously made awkward, and Newt chose to consciously not make it awkward.

Wait, what did you say to make it not awkward ? ? ? “ ——————— Broken. “ A statement blurted out when it should’ve been anything but a statement. Well fuck, that plan had gone out the window faster than Thomas’s ones did. He chuckles. Maybe it helped.

“ ——— How’s . . . yours ? “

Hmm. Minho grasps at his mug of coffee, basking in the way warmth seeped through the cheap china and into his palms. A nod of thanks and a half-smile, too tired to don any facades. Sweatshirt sleeves are tugged upwards, exposing his forearms and array of forked scars, his very own storm on skin. He needed a shower. A change of clothing. Maybe a lobotomy. 

Or just for his painkillers to kick in.

Broken. No shit, what wasn’t. Chuckle is mirrored and thrown back times two, unwilling to allow the tension in the air to choke him. Mind made up. This was his home, Minho wasn’t being forced out of it by new ghosts. Newt didn’t have to feel awkward, either. It was okay. If they just... moved on. Excelsior and all that shit. He was happy to take their one nice moment, shove it in a box and keep it, unaddressed as it was special. Anything to make whatever it was that Newt was feeling better. 

( Regret ? Hatred ? Disgust ??? )

“ It’s... not broken, “ a win, for sure. 

Gaze brumous, Minho stares across the room at Newt’s shaky hand, admiring the bruise that poured from both fingers and spread across metacarpus like a kaleidoscopic puddle. It was impressive. “ Least ya can tell people you got into a brutal fight, “ he jokes as coffee mug gets placed down on plastic, moving over to his freezer to dig out a bag of icy peas. At this rate, Newt was going to owe him a food shop. Foot kicks it shut, room crossed and the bag placed directly into Newt’s hand, the want to go batshit resurfacing as their fingers brush. When did everything become so tender and painful. “ You,  —— “ Minho was going to die if he stared at his eyes for a single moment longer. They mimicked the afternoon sun and it wasn’t fair. He found himself searching them for traces of feeling, anything to tell him what Newt was thinking. How fucked were they ?  “ —— keep that iced. “ 

Sigh swallowed, un-allowed to taint his kitchen. Minho moves back until he’s leaning against his sink again. “ Want breakfast ? “  

Eggs, toast, bacon. Cereal. Whatever Newt wanted. With a depleting headache and a determination like no other, Minho was content with cooking for them while Newt chilled. Anything to bring back normalcy between them.  ———— As long as the blond didn’t just up and leave, go home and let their night stew, they would be okay.

( Please stay. )

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Right. For Tommy, because Minho didn’t have a track record of hitting on the same girls that he did. Consistently. Jaw tightens, teeth clenching and only parting to allow tongue to sweep across them. Thomas didn’t even need another girl muddied in his waters, he already had two, but that was entirely besides the point. Hand doesn’t bother to reach for the fries that were hoisted into the air, despite the fact that Newt very easily could. He didn’t very much feel like engaging in the banter they’d began in Mcdonald’s anymore.

Man.

Newt made an ode to drop it, drawing his focus elsewhere before it consumed him. One last, incredulous look is thrown to Minho, because he didn’t believe him, and then Newt’s expression merges with the cityscape. Blank and void. Focusing on the way that dawn had began to wake up the architecture around them. No horizon in sight. No pretty colours smeared across it with a palette knife ( though Newt knew it was there. ). It was like living in a fucking box. Head swivels in a complete opposal of his best interests, lips parting to speak a little more idiocracy into the air.

Minho beat him to it.

It stops him in his tracks. An infinitesimal pause. Ice water washing over him with the morning light. Filling his veins and replacing the ichor that lived there. What did that mean. Feet flirt with the idea of gluing him to the ground until he’d figured out the answer. They didn’t, thankfully. Newt continued walking, ignoring every fibre of his being which screamed at him to emote. To react. He just needed a few nanoseconds to think before he did that. A memo which his cheeks obviously didn’t get, because he could feel them burning.

The nanosecond had been and gone,

taking with it his sliver of hope.

Minho was fucking with him. Obviously. It was what Minho did. A joke. Fumbling hands stop in their tracks, metacarpus contorting and tightening. He shouldn’t of gotten his hopes up, not even for a split second. Shouldn’t of allowed himself to. A drop from that high was too fucking painful. Eyebrows flash and eyes roll, head lulling as it turned towards Minho. The smirk from earlier had been replicated perfectly once more. Newt, ever the picture of a perfectly okay man.

“ Blondes huh ? Need I worry ? “ A joke. Haha. (  :|  )

Minho laughs, takes in a drag of air, the last remnants of 4am cold in his lungs. Fingers twist the brown bag closed, eyes briefly flittering over the purple and yellow graphic on it, slowly disintegrating through condensation. BTS ??? Why were McDonald's doing a promotion with BTS. ———— Nevermind that, Newt was digging his fingernails into his heart and ripping it open. Minho hadn’t expected him to joke back, or... flirt back ? No, it was a joke. Newt was joking. 

A joke.

Haha.

...

Minho wanted to scream, suddenly, despite the fact that he had been the instigator to his own downfall. Was it still fun ? Was it still fun now that Newt was giving him an immediate opening to confess, to let the bathtub overflow, flood their house and then drown himself in it ? No. Yes. It was still fun, in the kind of way a knife to the throat was. Smile widens, all white teeth and playful eyes, only half-fake as he played with fire. Spinning on his heels, Minho walks backwards and throws Newt a raised eyebrow, noting his reddened cheeks. “ Not so sure whatcha got to worry about, i’m a catch, “ a fool. He was a fool and he was digging his own grave. “  ——— ya seemed perfectly happy the other night... “ holy fuck, shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up ( shut up shut up !!! )

What the fuck was wrong with him.

Taking psychical damage from his own reckless words, Minho turns once more, nearly spilling the tray of coffee as he does, dark splashes freckled on his hoodie sleeve. Brilliant. What a show. What WASN’T to love, Newt was sure to be fucking woo’d. ( q_q ) That was if he didn’t walk away without a word, too choked on his friends stupidity to bother sticking around. Minho wouldn’t blame him.

He should have stayed home and got drunk. Minho should be laying on his living room floor watching the ceiling distort into oblivion, Or breaking something. Glass. Another cupboard. Set his fucking bedroom on fire, maybe. Suffocate. Chasing whatever desolation he could get his hands on. Instead, here he was, about to enter a park with his best friend and watch the sunrise, held at gunpoint by his own bravado. 

( Please, please, please, Newt, just move the conversation elsewhere. )

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Newt wanted to feel it. The same joy that Minho seemed to be conjuring up from thin air, despite the stagnant and depressing kind they actually stood in. He couldn’t. That wasn’t to say he left Minho empty handed, though, because he was cheering Newt up. Just not quite to the extent Minho had seemingly cheered up ( fake ? ). His apprehension at the beginning of the evening had all but evaporated, leaving only laughter and banter, both which were just a tad too loud. Minho was, and always would be, beautifully and unapologetically himself. Newt admired him for it. He was sure that his friend didn’t have the same inkling that told Newt to shut up because people were watching, nor the part of him that felt like he was performing by speaking out against the deafening silence. A genuine and overwhelmingly fond smile is offered for Minho’s efforts to paint some colour into a space that was destined to be sepia. “ Yeah ? Wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you. “ The guilt trip did nothing to touch Newt, but Minho was right regardless. He’d kill anybody who tried to pry those fries from his best-friends grimy hands.

Minho needed those.

It was the small things that made ya’ feel just a little less shit.

The fact that Minho had successfully dodged the question was duly noted. He didn’t want to talk about it, and he was rolling with his chances by leaving to collect the food. Either that, or he didn’t want to talk about that night. A fact that Newt wasn’t phased by, that was, until it was combined with the scene unfolding in front of him. Minho, a pretty brunette cashier, way too much eye contact. Easy. Not the girl, god no. But the fact that she was stringless, a story without a blurb, still at chapter one. Easy. Newt’s chances were waterlogged and disintegrated, a story that’d been in the bath too many times. Defined over and over again. ———Ah fuck. He didn’t mean to glare at her. A soft smile tries to fix his mistakes, but they’d proved time and time again they were always unfixable.

Minho, thankfully, saved the day. Heading out the door and beckoning for Newt to follow, away from the wretched atmosphere and the girl who’s shift he’d probably just made more miserable. Hmf. “ Too bloody right it is. “ Muttered, the fresh wash of air rejuvenating just a single hit point. He’d lost about fifty just from stepping through the threshold, but what was done was done. Nature and Minho’s company would definitely replenish them in due time——— !!! A fry. Catching him off guard, and then being duly ignored alongside Minho’s words, because Newt’s eyes were flashing to the sky in thought.

No. Bad idea. Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t do———— “ She was cute, “ Teasing in tone, eyebrow raised to his friend and face smug. “ Ya’ get her number? “ Cheek is scratched, expression painted to be that of a wingman. He was looking out for Minho. A bit of banter. Like they did to Tommy so regularly. It was about time that Minho found somebody, too. Fingers reach across, dipping into the bag and fishing out a fry of his own to pop into mouth.

The air was rich with moisture, covering every streetlight and cobweb with morning dew as the day’s first sign of light played peek-a-book with the sky. It was fresh, rejuvenating tired features until Minho was looking just a little bit alive. Was it the thrill his mind so desperately wanted to unravel in ? No. But it was nice, to be contemporary with the birth of another 24 hours. 

Oh, what the fuck was Newt on about.

Fries pause in their journey towards lips, grease and potatoes crimped between his fingers as Minho swivels to face Newt,  “ Bruh, “ he bursts into laughter, back of hand coming up to cover his mouth so that he didn't spit out food like a pez-dispenser. Paper bag is snatched away from Newt’s prying grasp, held up high as he walked. Every single fibre of his being wished that Newt’s words were painted in green. “ If I had it would’a been for our boy Tommy, ya know how he likes his brunettes, “ tongue swipes across the front of teeth, popping the absolute break in his diet into his mouth. ( Why were they so cold and hot at the same time ? ) Chewing. Thinking. Lowering the bag again.

“  ——— I prefer blondes, anyway, “ nonchalant, staring at the approaching backdrop of trees and railing that signified their destination. Minho meant nothing by it. A sideways glance at Newt.

He meant everything by it.

But Newt didn’t know that, which is why the cockiness in dark eyes would surely make no sense. ( Well, unless Newt wasn’t as stupid as Minho hoped he was. If he understood, he’d just see it as a joke. ) Then again... after their tangled night of raspberry vodka and misplaced affection, maybe Minho was being careless, making comments he shouldn’t be, throwing away signs of how he felt as if it didn’t have the ability to ruin his life. He was playing god, and loving every single second of it. Risk // reward, the greatest game offered. and Minho always chose to play

He’d make a deal with the devil just to shake up his boredom a little.

The spring in his step, the adrenaline, the bump in his pounding heart. It was stimulation that only came with teetering just that little bit too close to the edge. Minho was lucky, really, he had his character to hide behind at the end of it all. Being a man known for making jokes made making ‘’’jokes’’’ all that much easier. 

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Had he fallen asleep ?

Sleepy eyelids blink against the dusty morning light, disorientating taking its toll. One, two, three seconds are taken to process his surroundings. Pizza boxes and gauze and empty bottles littered his visage, painting a picture of reckless abandon against Minho’s coffee table. Minho’s coffee table. Minho. Brown eyes flash open, peering through a veil of blond to find an arm wrapped around his waist. Snug. A heavy weight holding him close and tight. That was . . . new. His temples fucking throbbed, despite having drank way less than Minho had.

Boy oh boy.

A predicament, for sure. It was hard not to feel a little masochistic when you’d waken up in the arms of your childhood best-friend slash adulthood crush and every part of your body hurt sans the butterfly effect he felt like he’d fucking swallowed. If Minho woke up right now, Newt would just about die, and it’d maybe be okay cause it would at least be sorta happy. A yawn, one he tries to keep as quiet as possible. Newt had two choices. He could indulge in the desire to fall back asleep and bask in the weirdly misplaced intimacy of his best-friend ( ! ! ! ) spooning him ( ! ! ! ! ! ! ). Or, he could make his hasty exit and fulfil the absolute sheer need to leave the situation before he obliterated himself. Yep. That was very obviously the correct choice. Bingo.

A shift, slow, testing the waters of whether the man behind him would wake or not. When he didn’t, Minho’s hand is taken gently into his own, and lifted to make room for his escape. It was kinda cute. God. Smile tugs against creasing cheeks, and Newt tries to soften them, but it’s futile. Feet touch the floor. His leg feels fuzzy like a bubble bath. Why’d he have to leave? Because he did. The morning called for it. Only the sun could ameliorate the reckless choices made beneath moonlight.

Newt got up ————————.

Don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up.

( Or, if you do wake up, save us both and pretend you’re asleep, Minho . . . )

Success. ( or the latter. )

The hand he’d taken is placed down softly against cushions, and the blanket is tugged back up to cover Minho, extra care being taken to tuck him in properly ( aaaaaaa ). His heart felt gooey, eyes drinking in every last detail in one final, farewell glance. Never had Minho looked cuter. Never had Newt felt so much affection for him.

What a mess.

One he couldn’t clean up, so Newt opts to quietly clean the one in the kitchen up. Bottle is picked up, rinsed, and recycled. The spillage carefully collected against a paper towel. Briefly, the cupboard and the large fist sized dent is considered. How. Why. ( :/ ). Never mind, that. Moving on, the kettle was boiled, and Newt places two mugs atop the counter before coming to rest against it, lazily inspecting the bandage that had began to fall loose as he waited. The roar of the boiling kettle was way too loud, it definitely had the capacity to wake Minho, but that was okay. Newt was out of sight and out of mind. A safe, respectable distance away from Minho, who was probably sober and . . . he didn’t know, actually. Either regretting last night, or feeling completely normal, because he didn’t see the subliminal messages hidden between physical touch.

Newt didn’t know which was worse. 

Soft orange sunlight and the sound of his kettle. Eyelashes fllutter open, then squeeze shut again until all he can see is phosphenes, the harshness of the world too much to take in all at once. Ohhhh, fuck. Between bushy eyebrows, the bridge of his nose throbbed, head feeling heavy, as if overnight it had become a centre point for gravity. Minho rolls over with a groan, face pushed into the weirdly warm space beside him on the couch. The couch. Oh. It was empty. 

... Had Newt left ?

No. His kettle wasn’t boiling itself.

Collecting his common sense, he moves until he is able to lay on his back, blanket bunched up between bare legs and shorts. Once again, eyes open, just a fraction this time, giving time to adjust to the forthcoming day and everything it held. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. It wasn’t so bad. Minho pushes up from the couch, sitting.

Okay, it was bad. He felt sick.

“ Fuck no. “

Head meets the backboard, cambered neck with his arms over his face. Minho rubs at sleep dust and squishes painted under eyes. A mental checklist starts. Headache. Dehydrated. Nauseous. Hungry. He tries moving his fingers. Ouch. He needed paracetamol stat, maybe some food too. In a state of bardo,  ————. he needed to get his shit together. Socks meet carpet, and he stands. And sways. And regrets standing. And stares at the mess of his living in front of him. Jesus. Memory kicks in, the night before coming back to him in fractured pieces, like a book you read every other page of. Newt. Oh damn. Newt. 

Sleepy, half-dead with hair messy and sweatshirt crinkled across broad shoulders, Minho slowly finds his way towards his kitchen, standing in the doorway, taking in the scene filtered with morning light. Cups. Steam. Newt. Ah, tea. A swallow, he stares at the man leaning against his countertop. ( What the hell was he supposed to say ?  ) Somehow Minho had been here before, waking up to men or women in his kitchen from nights spent curled together, yet, somehow not one single one of those situations had felt as close to a loaded gun as this one. “ Mornin’ “ genius. An inward cringe. Minho stares down at his hands, the blossom across his knuckles a red tulip. Hmm. One last lingering look at Newt, his brown eyes quiet in a peaceful way, because he was actually happy to see Newt. More than happy, if a little unsure. And then he pads across to his cupboard, working around the kitchen until he’d secured both a glass of water and two paracetamol. The tiny white pills are swallowed, then he reposes against the sink, gaze on the blond again. Jesus christ, why did he want to close the gap between them ? ( Stupid, you’d die. )  thank god for the rare survival instincts his brain granted him. Who knows where said instincts had been last night. 

“  ———— How’s... your hand ? “ asdfghjkl;.

( did he regret whatever the hell yesterday was ??? )

Minho didn’t.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Hm.

It was desolate. A self-contained wasteland, existing within a much larger wasteland. Ecosystems in a jar sprung to mind, though this jar might well have been empty. The atmosphere was all too dull. Colourless, despite its overbearing vibrancy. Everything was ever so slightly wrong. So slight it was barely noticeable to the naked eye, it was the type of wrong that could only be felt deep in your bones. The way that the tacky floor tiles stuck just a little bit to the soles of his trainers. The low, distant buzz that ruminated across the plane like a radio cutting between channels. The overbearing emptiness of a space that should’ve been heaving with people, and the fact that said emptiness didn’t carry an echo like Newt thought it ought to ( why didn’t it ? ) The vibes were shit. In all honesty, the only redeemable thing in sight was Minho, existing as the sole piece of humanity tying the desolation into a place that Newt actually cared to be in. It was familiarity stacked upon familiarity and drowned under subliminal vacancy ( awful ).

Newt understood.  

What did it say about him if related more to a Mcdonald’s at 4am than he did his friends?

Soft sigh rushes past lips, and he tries to regain even a shred of the okay mood he’d been in before the atmosphere had obliterated it. At least it was warm. At least it was warm ( ignore the fact that it was now too warm. ). Fingers waggle the card to catch Minho’s attention, and once it does, they’re tucked back into his pocket. Pursed smile being held captive against cheeks as Newt watches Minho thumb in the order. In a weird way, it felt wrong to speak and break the sanctity of the silence, so, Newt didn’t. Minho knew his order anyway. Minho knew almost everything there was to know about him. Instead of words, a nod is offered, smile breaking character to blossom into a genuine one as he does indeed, go ham. — Well, if going ‘ham’ meant order 3 portions of fries and lord knows what else, that was. It was nice to see Minho happy, even if it was slight, like every other thing in his visage.

Minho was smiling. (  :)  )

The damage to his bank account was worth every second of it.

" Can do. “ Anywhere but here, preferably, Minho. The park would be nice, all things considered. They would probably get hate-crimed — because they looked the way they did —but on the balance of probabilities, Newt would take his chances just to sit in nature for a bit. He needed it. God, did he need it. There’s an attempt to dodge the elbow that met his ribcage, but not a particularly good one. It still collided, and so Newt was forced to shove one right back into Minho’s. Brown eyes narrow, despite the affection that had lit up dull features. Newt hums. “ You want those fries ya’ can bloody slim it. “ He could 100% keep going, if he wanted to. It was cheering Newt up, and it was a promising sign that Minho was okay enough to be teasing him still.

A few more moments of waiting, and eyes are flicking from the counter, to Minho’s ticket, and then subsequently to the mass of bruises that spanned across his knuckles. They looked awful under the fluorescent lighting. Probably worse than they were, but Newt had a growing concern. Eyebrow raises, and a nod is thrown in the direction of his friends injury. He knew Minho didn’t care for it to be brought up, but Newt didn’t care for his friends avoidance, nor his inability to admit that he was a human who also experienced pain and the sustention of injuries.

“ ‘Hands lookin’ shit. “ Showing results for: are you okay ?

Reciprocated elbow digs into his comfort hoodie, bones momentarily burning under the aged fabric. Minho laughs, loud and boisterous, filling the despondent space around them like it was his own home, unthoughtful of the strangers lives he might be upturning with his presence. “ Pleaseee, ya wouldn’t take my fries away from me  —— I’m too sad, you don’t have it in you, “ shit-eating grin spreads from cheek to cheek, eyes alight with fire for the first time that night. It was a fact, like the sky was blue and rain was wet. Not that Minho didn’t appreciate it, he didn’t take Newt and his kindness for granted, quite the contrary, actually. But if they didn’t have banter, the McDonalds was going to eat them alive and spit them back out in a different dimension. 

( The last thing they needed to complicate their mess was reality shifting. )

Composition falters as Newt points out the galaxy that swirled against his knuckles, the red that bled into blue and yellow. Fingers an array in front of him, Minho flexes and unflexes the joints. It stung, yeah. He liked it. “ It’s fine, “ he’s going to continue his sentence when the battered screen on the wall flashes with their order number. Ah, avoidance, his old friend. Feet bounce, heading over to the counter and grabbing the brown paper bag and coffee tray, a thank you paired with only the slightest of smiles towards the cute brunette girl with dimples and a ponytail that handed them over. Oh, Thomas would love you.

Not Minho, though.

( A little bit Minho )

But he had his eyes set on a different horizon. 

Prized meal in hand, he makes his way back to Newt with a nod, nudging him as he walked past and towards the door, using the edge of his trainer to pry it open. He held it by standing against the glass, waiting for Newt to exit. “ C’mon. this place is givin’ me the heebie-jeebies, “ if they didn’t leave soon he would surely astral project. 

Once outside, greedy fingers dive into the crinkled paper, fishing out stray fries like a cat that hadn’t eaten in days. Mouth full, he grabs one and flings it at Newt, salt and potato finding home against his head . “ Park better be empty, “ or else he would make it so.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

There was a slight possibility that Newt might’ve shot himself in the foot, because Minho was reciprocating the touch immediately. Fingertips were pressing into knuckles, steadying Newt’s fingers and fighting off the tremors that still lived there. He was shaking, but only slight. Aftershock. A consequence of the trauma that had both been planted and upheaved that evening. Growing up, when something traumatic happened in his family, they’d drink tea with sugar as if I’d stop the shakiness in its tracks. It didn’t, and nor did Minho’s hand, but both helped.  

Both felt like home.

Only, this home was slowly being uprooted.

Each reckless stroke against calloused skin was sending his heart racing. Churning the contents of his stomach into a fluttery mess of alcohol and flower petals ( he was twenty one. he didn’t feel twenty one. ). Sure, he could stop, quit self-sabotaging and have some self-preservation . . . but it wasn’t anywhere near as desirable an option as the chiromancy he was conducting against palm. The slow drag of his thumb carefully mapping out each crevice, each crease. Heart lines. Life lines. — scars (   i’m sorry :(   )

Should’ve quit whilst he was ahead.

Cheek nestles further against Minho’s shoulder, searching for a comfortable spot to sleep in which wouldn’t leave him with a bent neck in the morning. Body is adjusted too, working in tandem with the all-too-small-couch to ensure that he’d conquered every last drop of Minho’s personal space. Served him right for being a bulky fucker and hogging the space, anyway. Eyes roll behind closed eyelids. “ ‘m workin’ up to it. patience. “ Spoken as if he were reprimanding a child. Thumb playfully pining Minho’s down and tightening around it like a viper Stop being a smart ass. The grip is loosened, and Newt goes back to lazy strokes. The calculation and curiosity slipping from them with each passing minute. “ gotta wait til you’re asleep, first. catch ya’ nice n’ vulnerable. “ Mumbled through a smile, Newt instantly breaking the truce they had just called.

Not dying tonight didn’t sound very promising, anyway, but Newt supposed it was a momentary relief from his shoulders. It was good enough. Everything was good enough. He was cozy, comfortable, safe, reposing against exceptional company. His exceptional company was tugging the blanket over them, drowning two bodies together beneath an ocean of knit. It was better than good enough. It was like, really, really good. Newt couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt comfortable and secure enough to sleep without laying awake for hours on end first. Yet, it was beginning to get harder to stay awake than it was to drift off. He was meandering across gentle waves, letting the tide consume him. Thumb stops, and Newt readjusts their hands, locking them tight and placing them comfortably atop the blanket.

The last thing he’d do.

Eigrengrau had began to succumb to the abyss.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And, his eyes were open to the living room again.

“ ——— ya’ think i’d still be here if I wasn’t ? “ Newt chuckles, instantly reminded of sleepovers and drunken nights spent sleeping on the floor of friends apartments. Memories made relevant by Minho’s consistent inability to keep quiet whilst people were trying to sleep.

It was okay. It was a sweet question.

“ ——— Are you comfy, Minho ? “

Too tired to reciprocate the laughter, Minho throws a somnolent smile into the darkness. Newt wasn’t wrong, he wasn’t the kind of person to stick around in situations he didn’t want to be in. But what did that mean, then ? Why was Newt so happy and content, if a little drunk, to fall alseep in his literal arms ? For a fleeting moment Minho considers the possibility of redamancy, that maybe Newt was reposed against him out of something unnamed between them, and not just the opportunity to feel some psychical affection for once. The concept dies embarrassingly quick, fanned out by years of laying awake, lungs nyctanthous and thoughts cemented with his idea of the truth. 

“ Mmmhm, “ he was very comfortable. And happy. ——— And beating himself up mentally for it.

It was time to sleep, before his head became an insufferable place. 

“ G’night, Newt, “  affection drips from each letter, lovingly spoken while the opportunity was still his.  Whatever morning brought was not of concern. Between the vodka on his kitchen floor, the pizza boxes and scattered rolls of gauze, his apartment was the epitome of ruin. Yet somehow they’d managed to do worse to their definition of friendship through a single cuddle. ——was this his last night of peace ? They were unlikely to be the exact same Minho and Newt again. It wasn’t plausible, they’d touched too much and said too little.

With racing thoughts, Minho stupidly opens his mouth to speak again, but he closes it upon realisation that Newt might actually want some silence to lay in. Instead, he settles with a squeeze of joint fingers. He’d leave him be, now. Why was it that Minho was always tired right up until the moment he was supposed to be sleeping ? His brain needed either an off switch or a bullet through it. Whichever came first would do. Yet on the other hand, he didn’t really want to sleep. Minho wanted to exist in their tiny bubble of comfort and safety for as long as he could. Sleeping would only be a fast-track towards a shitty future, —— one that was over-complicated with accusing conversations. 

One that likely didn’t involve any hand-holding. 

Eventually, after what feels like hours of nothing but his own company, the space in front of him warps, eigengrau taking him hostage until his mind stills. The last thing he registers before passing out is the quiet, steady inhale and exhale of the man in his arms.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

He kinda liked it.

Newt had half expected Minho to actually shove him, send him tumbling into a sea of pizza boxes and unhoovered carpet. If not for the unrelenting evening they’d had, and the entanglement they’d found themselves in, he was certain that would’ve been his fate. But, no. Instead, Newt was laughing as Minho’s arm constricted around him. It was, without a doubt, the worst attempt at being threatening that he’d ever seen. What was he supposed to do? Quake in his boots because a big, strong, muscular man was flexing his big strong muscles and cuddling Newt even tighter? Snuggling him even further against Minho’s chest? Oh noooooo. Unless the goal was to send Newt’s heart racing, subsequently making him blush, the threat had well and truly missed the mark. In fact, it missed the mark so poorly that Newt actually felt safer than he had before it’d been tossed into the air.

Minho was stupid.

. . . . man.

Newt’s peppered bouts of laughter still hadn’t died down, because Minho was still going. Digging himself a deeper hole in which he clearly hoped to recover some of his masculinity. Brenda wasn’t so bad. Though Newt resented her for her flaws ( or what he’d class as flaws, anyway. ) when it came down to it, she was decent. Nice, smart, sensible. Minho took it way harsher than it was, though Newt had intended him to. “ Yeah ? I could snap ya’ fingers just as easily. “ Nose crinkles with the statement. The counter threat was obviously empty. But he could. He had an impressive grip strength, something years of targeting your upper body could do for ya. “ Don’t think I won’t, either. I’m on a bloody roll tonight for it. “

The injured pancakes is removed from the top of the stack, coming to rest lower down in his lap. Meanwhile, Newt allows fingers to weave with Minho’s, sliding into place until fingertips are able to graze against swollen knuckles. Ah. His plan had been to squeeze his hand into oblivion, honing in the threat. But uh, maybe not such a good idea . . . Newt thought on his feet. Plan B involved the slow, gentle drag of Newt’s thumb across Minho’s palm. Gliding, caressing, exploring. All feather light. Dangerous. With or without redamancy, surely it was enough to make Minho a little nervous? ( It made NEWT nervous, so . . . ) As good a counterstrike as any.

Eyes fall shut once again. Hopefully, when he opens them next, it’ll be morning, and they can set to work on fixing all they’d broken. Or Newt could. Minho wasn’t a fixer, he was way more into breakage. As evidenced everywhere. — It was funny, actually. Because they’d started the evening with Minho teaching him how to fight and break things, too. So how the hell had that turned into Minho snuggling him on his couch ? It was a turn of events, to say the least.

“ was gonna sleep, but dunno if I should bloody trust you anymore. Might wake to ya’ tryna kill me. . . “ Who was he kidding? He’d still sleep. The thumb stroking his arm had every capacity to lull him into a deep slumber. His body was tired. His mind was fucking exhausted. It was gonna come any moment now.

" ——— truce ? “

I don’t kill you, you don’t kill me . . .

Instead , we cuddle . . .  In peace . . .

A huff. Like a child who had just been denied something from the store. Newt might find it funny now, obnoxiously filling the room with a blanket of laughter, but if he wasn’t held back by being ridiculously stupidly helplessly in love ( 🤮 ), Minho could kill a man with his biceps alone. 

So Newt had that to watch out for. Obviously.

His own quiet laughter interlaces Newt’s, breaking through his bitter expression. Newt sure was talking a lot of shit for someone who had just joined their fingers together and was now running lightning across his palm. A delicate storm that came with the crashing of the moon and the sun. “ Phft,  ——  “ Minho adds his own pressure, curling his fingers against Newt’s knuckles in a staggering display of hubris. Holding. Not letting go. Years of build up, years of wanting someone he KNEW he couldn’t have. As far as he was concerned, Minho had too much love and only one night to get rid of it all. Drain the bathtub before he flooded the house. “ —— ya doin’ a real trash job of breakin’ them, “ his words merged with the ambience, spoken into Newt’s hair as his jaw reposed against it.  Leaning. Eyes shut. At peace. 

“ Truce, I promise,  —— “ a yawn, a shift as he snuggles up closer to Newt, thumb running soothing circles against skin. “  —— I won’t kill ya. Not tonight, “ not any other night, either. 

Briefly, just for a second, he untangles their hands, tugging the white knit further up their bodies, effectively tucking them in. The room wasn’t cold, it would be enough for the night. Hands meet once again, unwilling to lose his fleeting moment. Minho would kill anything or anyone that tried to interrupt them right then, on sight. 

“ Sleep, “ I got you. 

It was only a matter of time before he, too, would fall prey to the chasm below them and slip into nonsensical dreams. But for a little bit longer, Minho wanted to relish in his situation. The alcohol was slowly leaving his system, setting off the trickle of a sand timer. Once it filled, the man next to him would no doubt leave, and the brumous façade Minho sat behind would again become his home. So his only option was to fight against oscitancy for as long as his body would allow.

Thumb slows, growing absentminded and soft as morning light. Some awful, self-destructive instinct ingrained within him wanted to tilt his head and press his lips against Newt’s crown of hair ( do not !!! ) The part of him that created every other bad decision that had ruined his life thus far. A swallow. Minho wouldn’t be doing that. They were in enough shit already without him adding a nuke to the pile of limbs. 

“ Are you comfortable ? “ was he asking if Newt was comfortable enough to sleep on the couch, with his bad leg, or if he was comfortable sleeping in his arms ? Who knew, Minho didn’t.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

Newt could read between the cracks. Grasp at the horrors that hid in the ruelle between laughter and partial candour. Of course he could. Maybe, it was his shitty superpower. To be able to read through people’s problems like the morning paper. Knowing exactly what holes to plug to keep them whole. What ravines to flood with liquid gold, and what directions to throw his bones towards. It was nice to know he helped his friends, in way. It was also a curse. Life would be so much easier if nobody leant on him, and if nobody needed him. If nobody bothered him. If nobody cared about him, too. All things Newt thought because he was irredeemably selfish. Objectively, he didn’t deserve anybody around him. Especially not Minho, because he was seeking a friend, and Newt already felt exhausted being him.

Piece of shit.

If Newt could kill just the part of him that thought like that, he would.

Fingers reach out to squeeze Minho’s shoulder in return, hand hovering longer than necessary as he stroked his thumb across crunchy, jersey fabric. In defiance of himself, Newt listened carefully to every single word Minho spoke ( because he did fucking care. A lot. so what the hell ? ). Head nods, brown eyes boring as much familiarity and comfort as he could possibly muster into Minho’s pair. “ Yeah, I got ya’. “ Steady and reassuring, it was all he needed to say. Minho knew that he understood. Newt knew that Minho didn’t want to pursue it any further. They both knew that he needed someone, and they both knew that he had someone. He always had someone. Newt wasn’t going anywhere, not voluntarily. He’d be there for Minho til the world physically pried him from his side, and even then he’d go out kicking and screaming.

Hand curls against the fabric of his pocket, bunching up the inner lining. Preventing Newt from  reaching out and offering Minho a physical presence to cling to. Something to make him feel safe. In ways that words just couldn’t. Bad idea. Bad bad bad idea. Glances are made into any direction other than in Minho’s. Suddenly, the pigeons and the upturned dustbin they picked at were the most interesting thing the night had to offer.

Don’t hold his hand ( !!!!!!!!!!!! )

Don’t hold hands that aren’t yours to hold.

( a new life motto ? )

( Newt could definitely see it printed on t-shirts and the like. )

The neon signage of Mcdonald’s might well have been a sign from god himself.

The door is held open for Minho as Newt enters, and then he’s grabbing out a wallet from the pockets of his jacket. The atmosphere was . . . fishy. There was definitely something about an empty Mcdonald’s in the early hours of the morning that begged to answer one of life’s mysteries. If, say, the secret to immortality, or parallel universes were to be found in a Mcdonald’s, at 4am, Newt wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised. It was gonna happen any day now.

Credit card is handed to Minho. “ Go on, go wild. “ He meant it, too. Whatever made him happy.

Stepping through the door, instantly Minho is hit by the type of air that could only be found within a McDonalds after midnight, it seems to pass right through him like a wandering spirit. Brown eyes flit around the liminal space, drinking it in. It was nearly empty, save for one couple taking up a booth, whispering quietly to each other, as if they were alone in the world. The lights bathed everyone in sci-fi blue, washing out warm features and turning it into a morgue. A single worker was mopping the floor by the condiments, uncaring as he was underpaid. A breath in. It smelt like cooking oil and plastic toys. His bones were uncomfortable within his flesh. Minho loved and hated it all at once,  —— muddy trainers stopping against tiles, pausing and staring into nothingness for a moment too long, as if some greater force had just shoved him out of his own body and through the floor. 

... Newt was trying to hand him something.

A shudder, and he’s back, reaching out to take the card with a deep breath in. “ Sorry,  —— “ anything ? Man, he’d finally gotten a sugar daddy. A chuckle and a head shake, snapping the loose pieces of reality into place. Stay. Walking over to one of the giant order screens, he quickly finds the sides section, fingers pressing on fries without hesitation. “ Thanks, gonna go ham on these lil’ bad boys, “ it’s tapped times three, and then he adds a few of the curry sauce dips and a large caramel latte. Newt’s regular order gets added, plus a large coffee for him as well, and then he shoves the card into the machine. The pin is typed in, as familiar to Minho as his Mcdonald’s order.

The things you picked up on after a lifetime of knowing someone.

( Man, robbing his friends would be so easy. )

Not that he would do that. 

The machine beeps and he grabs the plastic, handing it back over to Newt with a sleepy smile that sang appreciation better than words ever could  . The inky sheet of paper he held said that they were order number 2. Cool. Not long, then. 

All he had to do was wait in queue and try not to let the atmosphere grow on him like moss to a tree. Hands in pocket, he glances at Newt. “ Wanna eat in the park ? “ ( and maybe lay in the grass and watch the sunrise and try to feel a little less like a vessel for decay ? )

“ Or are ya gonna be too cold, like a pussy ? “ light-hearted. Elbow meets ribcage. It felt strangely like they were kids again, getting mcdonalds after school to eat on the swings. Instead of 20-somethings at 4am chasing down fractions of existence whilst simultaneously dreading it.

[ascven]

unstoryteller​:

What a fucking dumpster fire.

At some point in the evening, Newt had crossed a line burnt into the carpet, and ever since it had become increasingly harder to justify his own actions. Did he care about that? Not particularly. His moral compass had been abandoned on the other side of that line, along with a suitcase loaded with personal belongings such as his pride, inhibition, and various self-sacrificial complexes. Newt was going to be selfish and take up space, tonight, and Minho could decide for himself if he wanted to stay and move over, or leave him to bask in his void alone.  

The strength in which an arm tugs him close is all the answer he needs.

Somehow, despite the limbs that threatened to fall off the couch and send him tumbling against the floor, he felt secure. Immovable, bound to a place of safety in which he couldn’t make any mistakes from. There wouldn’t be any concrete or metal at dawn today, just painfully youthful awkwardness and a tangle of limbs. Minho had him, and he trusted Minho more with his wellbeing than he trusted himself. A deep breath in, and Newt relaxes. Allowing the couch and the man below him to carry his weight, freeing bones and muscles of the growing responsibility. It didn’t do much to stop the pins and needles from gnawing away at his bad leg, or the ache from bursting his fingers, but that was okay. Minho playing with his hair was well and truly enough to distract his racing thoughts from wandering graveyards, and that was all he needed. If the intangible pain was gone, he could cope with the tangible kind.

Head lulls until it’s resting against Minho’s shoulder, placed without care or consideration for whether it was allowed to be there or not. Newt was too tired for all that. His heart raced. A part of him knew there should be some form of internal debate or battle happening, yet none came. A yawn, one he’d caught from Minho. They were, indeed, cuddling on his couch. A reminder that makes Newt smile despite himself, eyelashes fluttering shut without plans of opening again. “ Got that part, sherlock. “

Maybe it didn’t matter what they were doing, anyway. They were best-friends and they could stay as that for tonight, because above all else, Newt really just needed a best-friend right now. One he was familiar with. One who knew all his skeletons and had become well acquainted with his closet. Minho. Uninjured hand reaches across to pull at Minho’s spare one, creating a brand new pancake stack atop his stomach. His left hand. Minho’s Right hand. His bandaged right hand. Pancakes. An easy breakfast to juxtapose their awkward one tomorrow.

“ mhm. —— yeah but I was taking the piss, —— “ Matter of fact. Another yawn. Possibly his breathing finally catching up to him, punishing him for depriving it of oxygen all evening. “ —— didn’t expect ya’ to start goin’ all brenda on me. “ Undue smugness laces the joke, and Newt could already tell that the comparison was going to strike a nerve and get him hit.

Stomach curls inwards, fingers stilling for a second, tangled in their sea of gold as Newt stacks their hands for the second time that night. Every single sappy, sweet, flowery disgusting word Minho can think of hits him like a freight train. Fucking hell, he was really in it. Stilled breathing rejuvenates, jawline falling to rest against Newt’s head, just softly. ( aaaaaaaa ) What did it mean when you knew the story of Icarus, yet couldn’t care for the caution in the tale ? If Newt was the sun, then Minho didn’t give a shit how quickly he burnt out. Let it consume him, at least he’d meet his watery grave feeling happy for once.

Maybe he was just stupid.

But it was hard, Newt was existing in his space in a way he hadn’t before. It felt familiar, comfortable like they’d done this a million times. Free hand drops, falling back around Newt’s shoulders, holding him close and safe and alive. The void behind eyelids beckons him, sleep aching throughout his bones. Heavy, willing to drag him into it if he just leaned back and let it wash over him like the tide. 

Unfortunately, Newt had to go and ruin that.

“ ‘Cuse me ? I could snap your neck so easily right now, “ he tightens and flexes the muscled arm circling Newt, only lightly so as not to harm him, but enough to show that his threat held vice. BRENDA ??? Just fucking shoot me next time.  “ If I wasn’t so content here I’d shove your ass off and into the coffee table, “ see how you like a few more broken bones, Newt.

Fucking Brenda. Man.

“ I’m never doing this again, ya ruined it “ whatever ‘this’ referred to was left open. And really, who was he kidding, he would one hundred percent do this again, even if it meant being called ... Brenda !!! It’s evident in his affectionate tone and the way he relaxes, grip loosening around Newt, thumb absentmindedly stroking against his arm.

A joke or not, the comment stung. Was he really acting like that ? No. Well. Maybe he was doing things that would have him pushing daisies by morning, but if Newt wanted to move, he was welcome to. It wasn’t like Minho had him locked in a gay-ass cuddle against his will. He knew where the door was. Brenda was overwhelming and weirdly forward and just all-around difficult at times.

Nothing like Minho.

...

[ascven]

 unstoryteller​:

It was true. Whether Minho had curried favours with some higher being, or if he was just naturally blessed, it still stood to fact that he didn’t ever look shit. Even now, with a birds nest of a bedhead and dark undereye circles painted in RGB, he still looked . . . good. Better than Newt had the privilege of admitting. A nod. “ Good that, Adonis. “ Sarcastic, smiling. Newt was being contrary for the sole fact that the banter might cheer Minho up an increment. A project without results, because Minho had left to make haste into the night.

Fucks sake.

Why’d he have to go and mention the pizza. Stomach curls inwards, and Newt winces. Faintly registering the pain that still overcame confined knuckles. Thoughts turning instead to tears and alcohol and vomit and bone dust. The perfect concoction of memories that were best kept in a closet. Newt didn’t regret that night. It was really nice, actually. Freeing. Good. Needed. Despite all of the chaos that had forced them from point A to B. But, — cause there was always a but, — they hadn’t spoken about it, and to Newt . . . that meant that Minho had regretted it. And of course he’d regret it. He didn’t do feelings that were real and gentle touch and affection that felt anything but platonic. It wasn’t him, or if it was, it wasn’t somebody he wanted to be with Newt around.

Best-friends, typewritten.

Brown eyes watch wearily as Minho walks ahead, Newt staying glued to concrete for just a moment longer. Just long enough for him to sigh his problems away, compartmentalising and hoisting up facades. Just be there for him. Nothing else tonight. He could do it. Feet jog to catch up, following suit until he was once again beside Minho. “ Nah, don’t worry about it. Wouldn’t have slept tonight anyway. “  Shoulders shrug the question off, filing it away as unimportant. It was a lie, though one with heavy roots in the truth. Newt barely slept until he hit the weeks where he would go ham and sleep absolutely every waking moment away. Bad weeks. Sometimes not sleeping was actually better. Walking with Minho by his side was even better still.

Hm. Approach Minho about his worries, or leave them to freeze, only to be thawed on a warmer day? Tough call. Maybe one that Newt shouldn’t have the responsibility of making. It did, however, prompt that he was absolutely freezing himself. Breath billowing smoke clouds against the breeze. Palms are first rubbed together, generating friction to no avail, and then they’re cupped and raised to lips, warm air blowing on them to slight avail.

A hum, gaze turning to Minho. “ So, you wanna tell me what’s bothering ya’ ? —— Or do you just need company ? “

Did Newt ever sleep ? Minho worried about him a lot. More than his brain capacity could handle, actually. Sometimes, in a selfish kind of way, worrying about Newt overwhelmed him to the point of exhaustion. His stupid body twisted in a puddle of blood. The image was etched onto the back of his eyelids, it scarred every moment from his sleep to his waking hours to the times in-between. A sigh, cold in temperature but warm in emotion. He would just have to accept that Newt, like Minho, was able to look after himself. To a degree

Bruise adorned hand snakes free from his pocket, running through dark locks from root to tip. Another sigh. Gravity felt heavier tonight, sneakers sinking further into the pavement with every calculated step. At some point he had become aware of his breathing, and now every inhale felt wrong. “ I just got into a headspace, “ he pauses, hands back in pockets, observing the night as he walks. Soon it would be dawn, and the border between the ground and sky would split with tangerine, like a fine piece of kintsugi. Minho loved being awake at this hour, though usually it would be because he’d slept and woken up early. Morning runs with crisp air and a painted horizon ? That was everything.

“ Was gonna get drunk or high or...  —— “ or everything in-between. “  —— just didn’t feel safe, “ a laugh, although he’s not sure why. At the end of it all, Minho would do those things anyway, fuck up his liver a little and it would be fine. But tonight... something was wrong, part of him knew that if he were to pursue actions ripe with deviation he wouldn’t make it to see his orange sky. That if he started he wouldn’t know how to stop.  A inkling that came from years of studying your own mental health patterns.

He wouldn’t tell Newt that, though. 

He didn’t have to, if Minho were a puzzle then Newt knew which pieces slot into which. Newt would get what he was saying through the veil of laughter and light words.  Head turning to face the blond, he throws him a small smile of reassurance. Minho was safe, fear wasn’t something he needed to install within the creases of their narrative. 

Not now, anyway.  

Arm gently comes to curl around his friends shoulders, giving him a slap on the arm, lingering longer than necessary before falling. Damn, Newt was freezing, Minho could feel it even through the fabric of his jacket. Guilt blossoms in his chest like weeds through a sidewalk. 

“ I’ll be good,  “  let’s get somewhere warm.