As midday bled into dusk, a complete temperature change had conquered the Glade. Time went on and everyone worked a bit faster, tugged their clothes a little tighter, and tried to pay no mind to the air that began to chill rapidly. The sun, which had been out and beaming earlier, was now nowhere to be seen. Instead, the trees swayed against the harshening wind, curling in on themselves.

As boys came off duty, they edged closer towards the fire. It wasn't much help today; flames flickered this way and that; heat barely cusped the knees of those gathered the closest.

You sat on a log facing the fire, head pressed against your thighs, cold hands hidden under your shirt—a strategic but unfortunately uncomfortable position.

Your maybe-saviour came in the form of Minho. The runner plopped down beside you, making himself as snug as possible, shooting a childish grin towards anyone who opposed. An annoying jingle sounded each time he bounced his legs—which was bad news for you, because he hadn't stopped since he'd sat down.

Abruptly, your hand shot out and latched onto his leg, stilling it.

"Sorry," he said, "just trying to preserve some heat."

You turned your head, resting it so you could see him. You were glad he was back in one piece, but you'd be damned if you could think of much other than how you were going to freeze tonight. "How was it out there?" you asked slowly, trying your best not to stutter.

Minho tilted his head, his eyes never leaving your slumped form. "Cold."

You found yourself smiling, but you gave his knee a push anyway. "Smart ass," you muttered. You turned your face back into the flesh of your knees. Minho was silent for a minute, save for the sound of him blowing hot air onto his fingers. Suddenly, that warmth hit your neck, and you snapped upwards as it tickled. Minho watched you with wide, 'innocent' eyes. You narrowed yours. Slowly, his blank expression gave way to his familiar wide grin. An idea struck you and you met him with a devious smile of your own.

"What?" he asked apprehensively.

Instead of answering, you lurched forward. He tried to shirk the advance by sliding further along the log, but a protest and shove from his neighbour stopped him. This gave you the perfect opportunity to slip your hands underneath his sleeve, your palms coming to a rest on his bicep.

A whine escaped him. "You're cold!"

"You're not," you giggled, laying your forehead against his shoulder. You felt him sigh melodramatically but there were to be no other objections heard. Your smile remained hidden amongst the crinkles of his shirt.

.

.

Ice-cold nudges against your skin urged you out of the cosy spot. "Hey," you grumbled lowly, letting go and sitting upright. Minho wore the same countenance of confusion. You looked around.

No one had touched you. No, that was snow. It was snowing.

"Minho?" you started unsurely.

It took him a moment to focus, like the snowfall had snatched him from here and instead dumped him elsewhere. "Yeah?"

"Has this ever happened before?" Minho had been here for a year longer than you, so if anyone knew anything, it would likely be him.

"No."

"Alright, shanks!" A voice suddenly called out. "Grab ya stuff and get it out of the way. Keepers, homestead, now." Alby's eyes passed over the crowd quickly, slowing down on both you and Minho. He gave a short nod and then turned on his heel.

Minho was up before you could even look at him. And, apparently, so were you—his hands had shifted to under your arms, setting you on your feet, leaving you to stumble after a hastily retreating keeper.

The snowflakes had soon turned into a wispy blanket of white. Some of the Gladers had clambered into their hammocks, while others had trundled out into the snow for some fun. Your eyes flipped back to Alby as he spoke up.

"Did I get hit over the head or is it really snowing?"

"Ya wish, klunkhead," Newt gibed.

"A'int nobody sleeping outside tonight, unless you want to kill 'em off," Clint piped up.

Alby ran the back of his hand against his forehead. "Where else are we meant to put them?"

"Divide everyone between the homestead and mess hall," you suggested.

"It'll be a tight squeeze, but we can make it fit." You shot Gally a gracious smile for the support.

Eventually, the leader nodded. "Yeh, alright." He seemed to ponder something for a minute, eyes downcast. He looked up, his gaze landing on you. "You take the mess hall with Fry. Minho and Newt too, Gally if you need it. It'll be a bigger crowd." He paused. "Rest of ya shanks, with me."

"Alby," Minho interjected, his face creased as it did when he was concerned. "We don't have enough supplies. Some extra clothes maybe, but it's not much."

"No shuck," he swore raggedly. "Damn creators."

After helping Frypan make a large batch of hot chocolate, you were handing them out while he sorted out some other kitchen matter. They were appreciatively sipped by the shivering boys who littered all four corners of the hall. Thankfully, your fingers hadn't had a chance to fall off yet, as the warmth of the cups continued to save them from the wind that knocked against the windows.

Minho popped up besides the counter. You rolled your eyes in response. "A third cup? Do you really want to be making the trek out to the toilet tonight?"

"I'd do anything for hot chocolate," he sighed dreamily. You laughed and turned around, moving a couple of cups out of the way. "Actually, I brought you your blanket."

"Oh." You turned to face him, seeing that he'd placed it on the bench. "Thanks, 'ho," you smiled. "You forget something though?"

"No," he stuck his tongue out adamantly.

"No?"

He leaned against the counter, trying to provoke you. "You forgot my next cup. I don't have all day, sweetcheeks!"

"You have all night," you cooed, knocking his elbows off. "You forgot pillows and sleeping bags. Unless you've stashed them in your third hand?"

"Oh, shuck," he groaned, his demeanour changing entirely. "I'll get 'em."

You caught his wrist. "Don't worry, I will."

Minho's eyes trailed over your face uncertainly. "Yeah?"

"If I die, you can have the rest of the milk," you said, giving him a poke.

"Nice," he grinned, stepping out of the way.

.

.

Outside, the Glade had almost completely descended into darkness. You trudged through the thin layer of snow, ironically savouring how you sunk into it, even if it did make walking ten times harder.

You noticed a lantern and a dark figure moving about the hammocks as you approached. As it turned to face you, you realised it was the keeper of the builders. "Gally? What'ya doin'?"

"Jus' gatherin' stuff." You nodded, taking a few more steps, only to be interrupted by him. "Come here." Confused, you listened. He shuffled a few things around and then dropped sleeping bags and pillows into your unsuspecting arms. "Yours, Minho's, Newt's. I'll bring in the rest."

You tried your best to compact everything so it wouldn't fall on the trip back. "I saved some hot chocolate for you." He turned towards you and you caught his eye, shooting him a faint smile. "Thanks, Gal. Even if no one else says it."

The briefest of smiles glimmered over his features before he looked away. "Yeh, wuh'ever. Dun' let the bed bugs bite." You gave a soft laugh and made your way back to the homestead, finally as prepared as you could be for the nightmare of a night ahead.

To maintain sufficient body heat you had cocooned yourself within a blanket. Many of the other boys had followed suit, dignity be damned. Gradually, the chill from outside had seeped into the bones of those inside and became too much, so it was off to bed they went.

You stared up at the ceiling, listening to the soft hum of broken snores and slinking whispers. Imagining the twinkling of stars instead of wood and cement was the only distraction keeping you from shivering. However, it appeared that Minho, who lay near you, wasn't having as much luck. You turned over after you'd heard his teeth chatter one too many times.

Clambering into a seated position, you saw him curled up, blanket stretched to his chin. With a heave, you slid towards him, taking your sleeping gear as you went. He jerked upon feeling the zip of his bag open.

He met your eyes as he rolled over. "W-what're you do-in'?"

"You're cold," you stated, still manoeuvring your things. You pushed the pillow closer, sliding it half under his head. Then, by some miracle, you realised the sleeping bags could connect along the edges. "Perfect," you mumbled to yourself, unaware of Minho's staring. Unwrapping the blanket was the hardest part—it was also hard trying to not wake anyone, although that was more of an afterthought.

Eventually you lay down once all difficulties were fixed. Minho was shivering uncontrollably; you could feel it now. "Hey," you whispered kindly, further encasing him in the blanket.

"H-h-ey," he tried to answer, but more breath made it to your cheeks than syllables. "If I die, t-then you can h-hah…my runner's undies."

You tried to muffle your laugh the best you could. "Shut up, slinthead. You're not gonna die."

"I might," he argued.

"Then don't do it in my arms." It was his turn to let out a chipped laugh then. Silence ensued for thirty seconds, until Minho began to fidget again. He grumbled some nonsense to himself before pulling you closer to his chest. He laid his face in the crook of your neck, blowing hot air onto your skin. "Jesus, Minho," you shuddered as his cheek pressed against your collar.

"I'm cold." Hearing your scoff, he added, indignantly, "what? Yuh words."

You pulled away. He tilted back a little, rewarding you with a questioning gaze. Your forehead creased as you took him in: you noticed how blue his lips were. Your palms came to rest on his cheeks, and he leaned into them welcomingly. Your thumb grazed over his mouth, worry eating away at you from the pit of your gut. "Come here," you ordered lowly. He obliged, nose bumping against yours. You stared at him for a moment, face blank. "Um, so where do you keep those undies…?"

Minho grinned, though it was soon lost to a tremble of his lips. He swore, trying to brush off the shivers that overtook him. You could feel his fingers crawling along your back, slowly drawing you closer. "How are you…war-mer…than m-me?" he probed, digging the icicles he called fingers into your skin. You shrugged half-heartedly, your mind still preoccupied by a deep concern as your eyes flickered between his own and the lower half of his face. His nose and cheeks were dappled in red; you could see that much in the darkness. You wondered if you looked the same. His eyes were half-lidded as he sponged off your body heat.

"Minho?" you blurted, anxious at his sudden lack of reaction. His eyelashes fluttered.

"Mmm…Y-y…Yuh?" he managed.

"You better not be playing with me."

He didn't respond to that one.

Fear got the best of you then. Your grip on his cheeks stiffened enough to leave red marks as you tugged him the short distance to yourself. You pressed your mouth against his, cold and harsh, but it had a positive effect as it led to a response. A few fleeting seconds passed before he kissed you back properly. Minho's fingers brushed over your cheekbones and trailed along your jaw, placid as ever. His mouth meld over your top lip monetarily; his tongue, probably the only warm part on him, scraped against your bottom lip. You broke away.

"What the hell?" you hissed.

"What? You kissed me!" he hissed straight back.

"You're hallucinating," you huffed.

"Am not," he sighed exasperatedly. His mouth fell into a still-slightly-blue, lopsided grin. "Was playin' you though."

"Screw you, Minho." You hit the bundle of blankets that protected him. Your gaze flickered over his face, taking in his newly flushed appearance.

He smirked, nimble fingers already tangling in a curly lock of your hair. "At your pleasure."