Archive of Our Own

Fifteen wasn’t adult. Not really. But Thomas liked to pretend it was close enough.

He didn’t whine about chores the way he used to. Helping out around the house felt different now, almost like proving something. Especially when Newt was nearby.

He stood a little taller these days, posture less slouched and more upright. He’d started eating more too! Out of hunger, yes, but also as a quiet drive to grow into himself. And when there were shopping bags to carry, he didn’t wait to be told. He just took the heavier ones, felt the weight pull at his arms and spine, and never complained.

It wasn’t like Thomas wanted to be an adult. Not yet. But he was done being treated like a kid. He wanted to be seen as something bigger! Like an Alpha.

His shoulders had broadened in the past year, chest tighter under his stretching shirts. And things had started feeling less like growing up and more like being carved into, like someone had taken something pointy and metallic to sharpen him from the inside out.

This wasn’t just a growth spurt.

It was biology. Instinct. Nature or whatever. 

And it hurt his jaw sometimes.

Still, Thomas liked being ahead of others.

Especially other alphas in his year.

They were still trying to be the loudest in the room—shouting over each other, shoving in hallways, laughing too hard at their own unfunny jokes. But Thomas didn’t need to be noticed. He needed to be ready.

His tutors must’ve noticed too, because lately the curriculum had shifted. No more just calculus or physics. Now there were units with titles like Alpha Conduct & Legal Boundaries. And Thomas hated how that phrase made the back of gums prickle, like teeny tiny thorns determined to keep him grounded.

There were entire chapters now—dense, clinical pages about scent regulation, consent rights, power imbalance. Behaviour Case Studies. Warnings. Laws!! 

They talked about alphas who didn’t know their own strength. Alphas who lost control and ruined people without even meaning to. There were fines. Trials. Restraining orders. Prison. And biting—biting.

That was a whole section on its own. 

Pages and pages. Blood markers. Bond triggers. Chemical shifts in nerve recognition and scent. Emotional contamination. Physical consequences. Legal ones. Thomas didn’t want to read about it.  He didn’t even want to think about it. Because biting was serious.

Not that Thomas had any intention of biting Newt, obviously. 

That would be insane. 

Stupid.

Gross, even.

Still. The tutors always looked at him a little too long when they talked about it. 

And he hated that more than anything.

Because he couldn’t explain what he had with Newt—not to them, not even to himself. What he felt—it wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t dark or feral. It wasn’t twisted or wrong. It was just him and his best friend. 

Like it had always been. His best friend who just so happened to be an Omega assigned to him in the Alpha guidance unit—something Thomas didn’t even know his mother had signed him up for when he was seven. His best friend, who always smelled like freshly crushed petals and that mild herbal lotion they apply to bruises. And if Thomas sometimes felt his throat tighten during certain lessons, he blamed the aircon. If his skin prickled when Newt pressed too close on the big couch, he told himself to sit up straighter and focus. 

You know, yesterday, he’d asked Minho—half-joking—if he thought his instincts were starting to kick in, half-hoping for some solidarity, but Minho was too busy trying to copy answers off his test before the teacher looked his way. So Thomas was on his own.

And honestly, it made sense. 

This shedding feeling. Like he was swimming out of himself, stretching beyond what his bones had space for.

His limbs were too long for his kid-clothes now. His jaw, sharper meant his voice kept cracking at the worst moments. Puberty was rewriting him from the inside out. Bone by bone, nerve by nerve. Even his teeth! Did you know they were the only bones you could clean by brushing?

Thomas was almost sixteen now.

Almost old enough to find a mate.

Not that he was looking. Not like the other alphas, who st rutted down the halls like their hormones were social currency. He didn’t feel like he needed one. Not really, not in the way they all talked about it in locker rooms and tutor groups, loud and cocky and nauseating.

It was supposed to be instinctive. Natural!

But most days, all Thomas could feel was this loud and—and, traitorous thumping in his chest that had nothing to do with his instincts and everything to do with Newt.

Not in some dumb alpha-mate-omega way.

He didn’t want to claim him. He just… wanted Newt to laugh at his jokes. 

To roll his eyes but still text back. to pick his side in an argument. to tap his foot beside Thomas’s under the lunch table, and maybe not move away right after.

And yeah—okay—he knew it was weird.

Weirder than anything his body was doing right now. Weirder than his changing voice, his too-long limbs, or the pain in his jaw from teeth growing out too fast, too soon. Because this week, for the first time in five years, he hadn’t gone with Newt to his hospital check-up.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he forgot. 

And that wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.

But it felt like a big deal.

Like all those years didn’t mean anything. 

Like Thomas hadn’t memorised the route on the public bus.

Like all the times Thomas memorised dosages and side effects and watched the nurses draw Newt’s blood like it was his blood being taken—none of it meant anything anymore.

Like he didn’t matter anymore.

And Thomas didn’t know why that made his stomach feel hungry. 

Why his stomach had felt hollow all morning, like he’d missed a meal or maybe a step on a staircase.

But maybe—maybe, because Newt was older and more independent now, this was meant to be the new normal.

It should’ve been easy for Thomas to not sign his name under the “Guardian” line. Easy to wake up on Sunday to an empty bed, sun peeking through the curtains, and just know Newt had already gone without him. Except it wasn’t.

Not really!

Because when he woke up that morning—his body felt like it remembered something his brain didn’t want to remember. Like packets of memories from another morning stitched into this one. A different bed. Softer pillows, one always missing from beneath his head because someone small with needy hands had stolen it. Eleven-year-old Newt beside him, pulling at his hoodie strings like he wanted to pull it off Him in his sleep and keep all of Thomas to himself. 

And the scent—something soft and floral, tucked beneath Thomas’s chin. The sunlight bleeding warm through his bedroom window.

And the knock—always gentle, never rushed.

"Hey, Edison. Wake him for me will you?"

Newt’s dad used to say that.

Right before Newt would groan awake and mumble something snarky in Thomas’s direction, only to soften immediately once he realized his father was waiting outside.

He’d jump off His bed too fast. Feet tangled in the blankets, or in the hoodie pile he'd made into a nest the night before. And Thomas would always catch him. Just a hand to the wrist or a steadying grip on his elbow. Sometimes brushing his scent glands.

Back before Thomas knew what it meant to be an alpha.

But now? Now it was different.

His body had changed faster than his mind could catch up. His feelings tangled with his thoughts until he couldn’t tell which were his and which were just biology clawing its way out of him.

And the way he looked at Newt felt different.

But never in the way people assumed. Never in the way that felt wrong. Just… like Newt was breakable. Like he was Thomas’s to shield from everything sharp and ugly.

Newt wouldn’t get it.

He’d never seen the version of Thomas that existed after school sometimes—scrappy and simmering, throwing punches he never wanted to throw because another alpha had said something about him.

It wasn’t about dominance. Or pride.

It was about Newt.

That’s why Thomas only really got along with Minho. 

Minho was smart—it didn’t matter to Thomas what Mrs. Lee would say about his grades. To Thomas, Minho was smarter than the rest of them. Minho saw Newt as a friend. Not as an Omega. 

For some reason other Alphas couldn’t wrap their heads around that.

Alphas like Alby.

Thomas didn’t like Alby. Never had. Something about the way he looked at Newt was just weird. Like he wanted to gobble Newt up while Thomas wasn’t looking. And he was always annoying with his remarks—winning arguments or whatever. 

And Thomas barely tolerated Gally—he always wrestled too hard in the sandpit when teachers weren’t looking—but his mum and Gally’s mum were friends. Old school friends or something, and Gally’s mum worked as a nurse and a part time pharmacist, so they ended up seeing each other a lot. 

Especially on the weekends when they picked up Newt’s prescription refills.

So Thomas had to stand there at the cash register quietly, trying not to glare daggers at Gally while their mums chatted across the Pharmacy counter and a tiny Newt waited patiently behind the lollies rack, picking gluten-free sweets and pretending not to notice that Thomas kept checking the labels on every bottle, even though he already knew what they were.

He would read the packaging. Every side effect.

Because what if one day Newt took the wrong thing? What if Thomas wasn’t there?

That was the whole point, wasn't it? Being an alpha? Having all this strength? Having teeth that could tear raw skin and instincts that could choose not to.

Like right now.

Ugh.

*CLUNK*

Thomas heard the tray hit the table before Newt even sat down. Loud as always, like a spotlight snapping on him the moment he entered. 

Newt was the kind of person who didn’t just arrive. 

He announced his presence, like the whole world needed a reminder he existed. That the earth wouldn’t dare forget about him, and Thomas liked the certainty in it.

He nudges his butt over the seat to make more room for Newt to sit.

Next to him, Thomas can feel Newt’s breaths. They’re not loud, just.. liquid. Like each inhale had to pass through something muddy before it reached his lungs. His shoulders were lifting slowly, and Thomas suddenly had this awful feeling that whatever He was trying not to say was louder than the entire cafeteria.

And the cafeteria was loud.

Cutlery clashing, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly. Two Beta girls from his science class waved at him from the canteen line.

Thomas stared at the table, awkwardly nodding his chin up in their direction.

The metal was proliferated with tiny holes, like someone had spent countless hours stabbing the end of a pen—or maybe a blunt needle into it over and over again—punctures without purpose. Maybe left behind by someone who was trying not to scream. Rows and rows of little silver empties. The kind you peeled open when something was wrong and hoped the right ripe pill might fix it.

*crunch*

He took a bite.

It was technically oatmeal, yeah—but it was also a mess of cinnamon and honey, shredded apple, and half-mashed banana. Sweet sugary golden heaven. 

He stirred the spoon once, watching the honey pool and swirl like it was trying to make up for something the oats lacked.

“You know, if you wanna—"

Thomas scooped up some honeyed-oats.

“If you wanna be with other omegas, I don’t care.”

The spoon in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth, oatmeal threatening to slide off. 

“—just not in my bed.”

It dropped back into the bowl with a soft *plop.*

Thomas didn’t look up. His gaze locked on a crack running along the table’s edge and pressed his thumb into the corner of his tray.

                what?

He opened his mouth to say something, but his tongue was covered in sticky oats, like it didn’t know which direction words were supposed to go. 

And then he smelled it. Just a hint of thinning out sugar that sat opposite him, turning bitter around the edges like steeped tea left too long to cool—

“You could at least pretend to acknowledge me, Tommy.”

Thomas didn’t look up. 

Instead, his eyes dropped to Newt’s hand.

There was a bandaid curling at the edge of his palm, one corner already lifting, like it was giving up. 

A faint, but obvious stain of red showed through the gauze.

He knew it would take at least a week to heal. Maybe longer. Probably.

Thomas knew Newt tried to be careful, but the pills had their cost—two, sometimes three before meals. Suppression, regulation, a precise balance meant to keep everything inside him quiet. Necessary, they said. Even if the side effects left his skin too sensitive to basically everything. He’d learned to measure time by the emptying of Newt’s pill packets.

Mornings were the hardest. With the dose wearing thin, Newt would move slowly, stretching like he was shaking off sleep—or shedding a skin. He’d rub his eyes, crack his neck, then toss out something casual like, “Fancy a jog, Tommy?” as though the idea weren’t ridiculous for someone who could barely keep down dinner the night before.

When Thomas watched him tie his shoes—laces messy, double- and triple-knotted like charms against tripping—he pretended not to notice the tremor in his hands or how long it took him to get the loops even.

Maybe the jogging was about exercise. Or maybe it was Newt’s way of clinging to something normal, something untouched by medicine. A routine that kept him tethered.

And yet, on those mornings, as Newt pulled on his hoodie and left with too much energy for someone still half-drained, Thomas hoped—quietly, fiercely—that the pills were at least doing something.

Even if Newt’s jog ended up just being a walk.

*CLINK*

Thomas looked up.

Newt was playing with his food—nudging the fruit around his tray like it didn’t belong there. Like it hadn’t taken Thomas twenty minutes in the cramped student services kitchen to prepare.

He still liked this recipe, right? It had been the same for three years—apples, banana cinnamon pancakes, topped with a bit of honey, just how little Newt liked them. He’d said that they were good. That Thomas made them perfectly. “A-plus Tommy!”

That had to count for something.

But Minho always had something about it.

“Feed him something new”, he’d suggest, always with that too-bright light bulb in his eyes, like he’d just cracked some genius code. Like Newt was just supposed to suddenly crave variety. That his food wasn’t tied to comfort or memories or—God forbid—choice. 

Thomas knew better. 

Newt didn’t like when people decided things for him. Especially not what went on his plate.

So then, what was wrong with today’s pancakes? 

His eyes flicked to Newt’s neck—no scratching at the chin or jaw, not yet. That usually meant texture. Maybe the batter was off? Too mushy? No, Newt liked them mushy. Too crispy on the edges, then? Did the crunch set off something weird on his tongue? Or maybe—

*SCRAPE.*

Newt dragged his fork across the tray again.

Thomas winced.

He wasn’t not eating. Just… moving things. And then he didn’t move at all.

He stopped.

No more movement of his wrist—and then—the only thing that moved were his eyes.

Honey-brown, flecked with bruléed sugar at the edges of the iris.

When sunlight caught them just right, they glowed like honeycombs—tiny sanctuaries for bees. Sometimes Thomas dreamed of flying straight into that golden syrup, desperate for a taste.

“What?” Newt asked, the word barely more than a breath.

No answer.

Thomas tapped his fingers once against the scratched metal table, then froze. His gaze didn’t wander. It stayed. Staring at the curve of Newt’s neck where honey was the sweetest. He should’ve looked away. But he didn’t.

*SCRATCH SCRATCH.*

Newt’s hand brushed lightly against his cheek.

Okay. 

Something was off. Probably the pancake texture after all.

Newt wasn’t eating so much as shuffling food around, like rearranging it might somehow make it better. Thomas kept glancing between the fork and Newt’s neck—because the neck was distracting, it always was—until Newt suddenly held out his fork.

Balanced on the end was a single slice of banana.

“Did you want a bite?”

Thomas just blinked at it. He wasn’t sure if the right response was yes or what are you doing. Before he could figure it out—“Hey losers!” Minho arrived.

He swaggered over and clapped a hand onto Thomas’s back hard enough to shove him forward in his seat. Thomas scowled.

Minho just grinned, sliding down into the seat across from them like he owned the whole place.

“Why do you look like you haven’t slept in weeks? Oh, wait—” He snapped his fingers with mock revelation. “Because you probably haven’t.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. 

“You get off on harassing him or something?" Newt smirked, chewing like a rabbit on a bit of banana.

Minho leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. "It’s one of my greatest joys in life, yeah.”

Thomas shot him a glare but didn’t bother saying anything, scooping up another spoonful of his A+ oatmeal. He was starving and no interruption, not even Minho, was going to stop him from inhaling it.

Before Thomas could Minho’s morning rants out completely, Gally and Alby showed up with their trays.

Alby spoke first—of course he did. “Hey, Newt.” His voice had that smooth, polite tone that always sounded fake.

Thomas’s eyes slid down to his oatmeal. He shoveled in another spoonful. Alby didn’t need his attention. The guy sat next to Newt without hesitation, like it was his spot.

Gally claimed the last seat with a mutter about the lunch line, and just like that, Thomas’s focus on Newt’s neck snapped. The table felt smaller, more crowded.

Minho kicked his feet up and rocked his chair dangerously. “So, what’s the drama today?”

“What, you think I just produce drama?” Newt’s laugh was short.

“You and Tom exist, so yeah.”

Thomas exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple with one hand and keeping his spoon in the other. He shoveled more oatmeal in, because at least oatmeal didn’t talk back.

Newt flicked a bit of pancake at Minho. It skimmed past his cheek. Thomas knew Newt could aim better.

Alby didn’t even notice. He was leaning ever so slightly toward Newt, close enough that Thomas caught it without meaning to. He didn’t care. Not really. Not worth thinking about. Alby was fine—strong, respected, the kind of alpha people wanted around. And Thomas didn’t trust him. Not in any way you could point at, just… the way you don’t trust a locked door you’ve never seen opened.

“Newt,” Alby said suddenly.

Newt blinked. “What?”

“You alright?”

Thomas bit down hard, teeth pressing into the soft of his gums. Too hard. A warning ache spread through his jaw, sharp enough to make his eyes sting. If he kept doing this, he’d draw blood. Again.

He needed to stop. Stop chewing at himself. Stop eating all the time.

But then Newt nodded absently at Alby’s question, dragging an apple slice through the cinnamon dust, slow and deliberate. Like he was sketching something private into the plate. Then he lifted it—tongue sliding over the curve, licking the cinnamon clean before biting down.

Thomas’s jaw locked so tight it hurt. His teeth ground against each other, desperate, hungry, as though they might split enamel just to release the pressure. He could almost taste the cinnamon on his own tongue. Sweet. Spiced. Followed by sparks of someone’s sweet skin. If only—

He swallowed hard, but his mouth only watered more, pooling with saliva that made his throat ache to gulp it down. Every part of him screamed eat. Not the apple. Not the dusting of spice.

His teeth pressed deeper into his gums, until he felt that faint metallic bloom of blood, sharp and coppery. He clung to it, almost grateful. But just the image of patient lips, the taste of blooming sap—the feel of a tongue sliding over lips—what would his Tutors think! 

Control yourself, Thomas.

An Alpha is responsible for his strength.

An Alpha respects boundaries.

An Alpha never confuses instinct for permission.

Those words were carved into the back of his teeth, the same way they were drilled into him during Alpha Conduct & Legal Boundaries. They’d shown him case studies—cold, clinical pages of alphas who hadn’t known when to stop. Who’d leaned too close. Who’d bitten because their biology told them to. And every single one had ended the same way: fines, trials, apologies that didn’t matter.

Thomas fingers twitched against his spoon. He blinked, forcing his gaze down into his oatmeal, drowning the thought in another mouthful. 

Newt wasn’t looking at him anymore. But ever since that flicker—the sudden spark of imagining what it might be like to kiss him—Thomas felt stupidly guilty for wanting it so badly.

__________

Sometimes Thomas wondered what storms were turning over inside Newt’s head.

After class, he had to slow his stride so Newt could keep up, though Newt hardly seemed to notice. He was staring down at his own hand like it belonged to someone else.

Thomas adjusted the weight of the two bags slung over his shoulders—his own, and Newt’s messenger bag. He didn’t mind. If anything, he liked the tiny reminder of closeness: the matching keychains dangling side by side, clinking lightly with each step.

But Newt wasn’t looking at that. His gaze was fixed on his sleeve, distracted, fingers brushing the fabric like he was searching for something invisible there.

“Oi,” Newt said suddenly, breaking the silence. “You’re doing it again.”

Thomas blinked. “Doing what?”

“Carrying my bag like I’m some toddler you’ve been told to mind.” Newt kicked at a pebble on the path, his voice sharp but not without humor. “We’re sixteen, Tommy. Sixteen. I can handle a bloody messenger bag.”

Thomas tightened his grip on the strap. “Yeah, well, you didn’t look like you were handling much back there. Nearly tripped on the stairs.”

“That was once.” Newt shot him a look, all mock outrage and flushed cheeks. “You keep hovering like I’m about to snap in half, and it’s—patronizing.”

Thomas fought back a grin. He’d expected this. Newt was always good at spotting the quiet ways he tried to look after him. “Fine. Next time, I’ll let you fall on your face. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Newt muttered, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. He shifted closer, shoulder brushing against Thomas’s for just a second before drifting away again. “Anyway. Did you see Winston’s face in class? Looked like he’d swallowed chalk when the teacher called on him.”

Thomas chuckled, letting the bag slip a little lower on his shoulder. Newt rambled on—about teachers, about star wars, about nothing at all—and Thomas let the sound of his voice settle in his chest.

By the time they cut past the school gardens, Newt had insisted on slinging his own bag over his shoulder again, tugging it higher with a little huff like he had something to prove. The two of them walked side by side, gravel crunching underfoot, the air sharp with the scent of cut grass.

The oval stretched wide and green ahead, track lines still faintly chalked in the late sun. Thomas felt his muscles twitch with the memory of running laps there. He knew Newt would watch him from up on the bleachers sometimes.

The sky was painfully clear, blue so bright it hurt to stare at, and the birds seemed to be screaming about it—sharp, high cries that cut over the quiet. One swooped low without warning, wings slicing through the air close enough that Thomas flinched.

Newt barked a laugh. “Ha! Must be that mop you call hair. Looks like a nest.”

Thomas glared at him, brushing a hand through the messy strands. “It does not.”