Disclaimer: I do not own this amazing franchise know as the Maze Runner. All rights go to James Dashner, the author of the Maze Runner, and his publishing company whom he probably sold the rights to. This story is written purely for my entertainment with nothing to do with profit or recognition. "I write what I want to write, I write what amuses me, it's totally for myself."- J.K. Rowling.

Don't even ask me what this is. Call it slash if you want but it could also be viewed as a friend comforting a friend. Enjoy.

Long tendrils of warm blond hair tumbled down and around a pair of hidden hands like strands of ivy over a wall. A face, buried in hands, allowed a soft groan as mental walls reconstructed themselves around a weakening fortress of information. An internal door slammed shut like a tree branch lashing back upon being bent from place. The lock, solid topaz (for the material was far harder than iron), clicked shut as the key of pure energy turned a final circle. His mind was a fortress, then. Nothing could enter his mind; he was ready.

The boy stood quietly. Around him the dim light of his home flickered distantly, to the delight of the boys inhabiting the stone-surrounded courtyard. He trod onwards with soft footfalls to a large fire surrounded by cheering boys. One, a strong-looking Asian boy, approached the blond.

"Someone's a glum lizard," the second boy laughed from behind the blond who jumped at the voice. Clearly, he had not heard the second boy's approach. A arm was slapped around the blond's shoulder. "Wha's happened, Shank?"

"Please, Minho," the blond mumbled. "Be serious. There's, eck, there's something I need to say." He paused in the midst of the sentence to release a nervous breath in the form of a throaty noise. "Look, mate, can we go somewhere else?"

The second boy, Minho, nodded. "What's this you wanna say, shank?" Fluttering eyelashes were 'subtly' flashed in the blond's direction. "You gonna," he slyly pressed closer to the blond, "confess your undying love?" Despite his teasing, Minho followed his blond friend away from the fire and the other boys.

"Minho," the blond stated with calm irritation. "You arse."

Grinning stupidly, Minho replied. "Ahh, come on, Newt. You know you love me. You'll have to say sometime." In response, the nerve-filled blond, Newt, whirled, smacking him around the head with a slightly harsh motion. A irritated and frustrated groan escaped the other boy. "You shucking idiot!" He complained, clutching his head. "That shuck hurt."

Newt raised his head defiantly, though the motion was unnecessary. As it was, he towered over Minho. "Learn not to insult," he said with a faint blush. "And thou shalt not be hit 'round thine fat head." Safely away from the other boys, Newt plopped down upon a log in the dark of the cooling night. He gestured for Minho to plop down beside him. The taller boy formulated his defences a final time before forcing himself to relax and force the words out.

"There's something you need to know about the Maze," Newt began. His warm gaze was locked upon the walls surrounding the place that he called the Glade. "I- I think I've found the way out." Bursts of pain shot through his skull but Newt did his best to ignore the pain as he continued on. "It's a code, a bloody simple code." His words were beginning to pick up pace, pouring through him like water pouring over a cliff. "It's so, so simple. Each piece fits in and I can't believe I didn't notice before, it's just so, so simple. It's the changes in the cycle that hold every key to getting us out of here. Each day is a part of the code, a piece in the puzzle so to speak. You just need to piece each section and each day together to find it. It's s-"

Minho burst in, confusion lighting his face. "Hold up, shank. What sections? What are you even talking about? We don't have maps of each day; we don't know what these... sections are. Newt, you have to explain what you're talking about."

The pain in Newt's head was intense by that point, crippling his thinking power. In an instant, the pressure building within his skull had turned from simply uncomfortable and irritating to forceful and controlling. It bent him to his will, thoughts turning to the simple and boring topic of the grass on the ground before him. "Aaarrrggh," he moaned, hands lifting to clutch his aching skull.

"Newt?" Minho asked, suddenly alarmed. Worry glowed in his dark eyes as he rested a hand firmly on Newt's shoulder. "What's wrong, shank?"

"Aaarrrggh," he moaned again, "my head... hurts." A large, warm hand coursed over his bony back, rubbing immense and gentle circles. A moment later, Minho's hand stroked Newt's spine. He gently pressed down each vertebrae as Newt continued to moan. "Aaarrrggh," the moaning continued as Newt slowly melted into Minho. He shrank against the Asian boy's toned chest, head resting on Minho's shoulder as the other boy rubbed Newt's shoulder with a soothing caress.

Then, as slow as Newt's own tortured actions, Minho rested his own head upon the blond's, nudging him even closer to the warmth in the sea of cool shadows. "Shh," he murmured into the shock of blond hair. "Everything's gonna be alright. We'll get our of here, okay? Where there's a will, there's a way, okay? We both know that there's too much will for the Glade to withstand. Shh..." Minho continued to coo into Newt's hair, trying to console the pained boy. Offering no resistance to being softly cuddled, Newt nuzzled farther against the boy, head burying into his shoulder. He was only half conscious, mind drifting between a state of pain and fear to calm and rest. "Just relax now, shank. Let's not talk about the maze, let's not talk about nothing. Just relax. Shh..."

And so Newt did, pulling his knees to his chest and nuzzling Minho's shoulder as the pain began to disappear from his head. In the distance, the rest of the boys cheered over something. Judging by the hoots, they were ecstatic from one of their wrestling matches. The two boys separated from the group paid no attention the cheers, the half-asleep boy falling deeper into the arms of Morpheus.