Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The clanking of gears and the deafening chug of machinery are the first thing that he hears when he wakes up. Jerking upright, he wildly looks around him, at the crates and barrels illuminated briefly by the flashes of light coming through the metal lattice keeping everything in. Scrambling to his feet, he feels a yell boil up from his stomach, burbling up and out from his lips like an avalanche. And once he starts yelling, he can’t seem to stop.

“Hey!” He bangs a hand against the side of the cage, hair blowing in the wind as the machinery carries him up, speeding faster and faster. “Help! Help me!”

Fear tangles in his gut, squeezing tighter and tighter as he rockets towards the top of the shaft, red lights blinking slowly in warning that he was about to hit the top. The scent of metal and motor oil grow more pungent, thicker, cloying in their strength, filling his nose until it tangles with the feeling of fear.

The cage jolts, slowing down by half in the span of a second, throwing him to the floor before it neatly docked its walls into the ceiling above. The sudden silence was overwhelming, almost worse than the clang and chug of machinery. A loud buzzer sounds, and the ceiling above him is opening, revealing a bright sky of the clearest blue. 

He shields his eyes with a hand, blinking to adjust his vision to the sudden exposure. Voices trickle down into the cage, laughter, low murmurs. A figure stands at the edge of the cage, silhouetted by the bright sun. They leap down, their landing shaking the metal and rattling its contents, including him. The overwhelming scent of smoke and spice clog his nose and he resists the urge to gag at the smell, his eyes watering with how much it stings.

“Day one, Greenie. Rise and shine.” Fists grab his shirt and haul him out of the cage, throwing him to the ground outside. The grass is cool beneath his face and hands, it's a shame he’d been tossed onto it like a ragdoll instead of having the chance to lay down on the soft soil himself. The voices around him grow louder, jeering and laughing at him. He scrambled to flip over, wide eyes darting between the crowd of faces surrounding him, looming over him like giants. His eyes land on one face, brown eyes warm like hot tea, and his world narrows down to sharp cheekbones and a mess of long, blond hair. He can tell that the other can feel it too, with the way those dark eyes widen, his lips parting slightly as he gasps.

His brain is searching for something, tearing through filing cabinets and opening empty folders, searching for something that should be there but just… isn’t.

Something warm and slow fills his chest, oozing from his cracked ribs like honey, thick and sweet. And what follows the wonderfully warm delight is an ache so strong it feels like his lungs are being crushed beneath the weight of it. 

He feels like he remembers, like he should remember, but he just… can’t.

Why can’t he remember?

Half in frustration and half in terror of his body yearning for the body in front of him when he doesn’t even know, he kicks his feet under him and runs. He shoves his way through the crowd of laughing faces and teasing voices and runs away, his feet pounding against the ground and the wind stinging in his lungs. 

This he knows. Running. He remembers liking it, but he just can’t grasp why.

An unexpected hole sends him tumbling to the ground, his world spinning until the walls towing above him are all he can see.

Walls?

He slowly rises, his eyes tracking the towering pillars of stone, rising up to the heavens like hands, fingers caging everything between them, trapping them beneath the weight of the world.

Voices follow him, trapping him in a whirlwind that he only half listens to, caught between stone and those brown eyes, lingering in his thoughts, ever present and unavoidable with how prominently they were displayed in his minds-eye.

Somebody asks his name.

“Thomas,” he answers, distant and unaware. It’s the one thing he can remember about himself. He doesn’t know where he’s from, who his parents are, if he has any siblings. He doesn’t know how he ended up here or why. Neither does anyone else. Alby, their leader, explains everything they know. The Maze. The Box. The Swipe. WCKD. It’s enough to send Thomas’s head spinning.

And then they meet again.

The blond from earlier approached them, his enchanting eyes drawing Thomas in until he’s drowning in them, inhaling lungful after lungful of their sweet maple-syrup color. His scent drifts over to Thomas in the breeze, just a trickle past the overwhelming smell of the Glade, but once Thomas is aware of it, it becomes all consuming.

Citrus and cinnamon break him down until he’s a puddle on the ground, smelling like sunshine and warmth and inexplicably of home. Thomas is drawn to him like the moon to the sun, irreparably pulled into his sunny orbit by the gravity of these feelings, and he doesn’t even know his name.

“Thomas, this is Newt, my second in command,” Alby introduces, slinging an arm around Newt’s shoulders, a motion that has a spike of jealousy ricocheting through Thomas’s heart. Thomas blinks, caught off guard by the sudden emotion. Newt stares, his nose twitching as he picks up in the sudden change of Thomas’s scent. He gently shifts his weight, causing Alby’s arm to fall from his shoulders. Alby glances between the two, furrowing his brow as he thinks.

“Do you two…?” Alby trailed off, the rest of the question silent but deafening. Do you two know each other?

Thomas and Newt stare at each other, eyes wide.

“I… I don’t know,” Thomas mumbled. 

“We probably knew each other before the Maze,” Newt said. Thomas was struck by how lovely his voice was, accented and light. It turned Thomas’s bones to rubber, almost making him melt on the spot. “Speaking of, that was quite the show you put on earlier. For a second there I thought you had the chops to be a runner. Before you face planted.” 

“Wh- runner?” Thomas questioned, glancing between Newt and Alby. He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Newt for more than a second, even when Alby seemed to have an answer to every question Thomas asked. It seemed like Newt had the same problem, staring at Thomas with a teasing smile, his dark eyes threatening to swallow Thomas whole.

“Newt, do me a favor and find Chuck, yeah?” Alby redirected. Newt stared at Alby for a moment as his smile slid right off his face, turning his expression shockingly intense. They seemed to have a conversation without any spoken words. Silence stretched, long and tense, before Newt huffed, cinnamon spiking briefly before he turned and marched away, shoulders tense and steps uneven. Thomas and Alby stared after him as he walked. Alby shook his head, then clapped his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, wafting the overwhelming scent of pine over Thomas.

“Come on, Green Bean. Let’s wrap up this tour.”

…oooOOOooo…

The fire blazed hot at Thomas’s back as he leaned against one of the logs dropped for people to sit on. Thomas gazed out into the Glade, his eyes scanning the towering walls of the Maze beyond the grassy clearing.

“This seat taken?” A familiar voice asked. Thomas rushed to pick up his plate and move it onto his lap to make room.

“No, no not at all,” he said. Newt plopped down onto the grass next to him, holding his own plate and a jar of water. His hair was loose around his face, tucked behind his ear even as the strands around his face fell free, turning into beams of sunlight from the fire light behind them. They sat in tense silence for a moment, both of them stuck in that uncomfortable space between strangers and friends, made worse by Thomas’s budding crush on the other. Well, it made it worse for Thomas.

“Here, it seems like you had a stressful day. This’ll help to take the edge off,” Newt handed over his jar, and Thomas gratefully took a sip. The liquid burnt his mouth, setting fire to every taste bud on his tongue. Thomas choked and spit the drink out, coughing as he inhaled the remaining fumes, then coughed harder as they flooded the back of his throat and nose.

“Oh my God, what is that?” He choked out between coughs, hastily handing the jar back to a laughing Newt.

“I don’t even know. Gally makes it, it’s his secret recipe,” Newt said, turning around to look at the aforementioned man. He was currently wrestling some of the other Gladers by the light of the fire, throwing them around like they weighed nothing and laughing when they limped off in the face of defeat.

“Yeah well, he’s still an asshole,” Thomas turned back to the Maze, staring at its dark walls, squinting like if he stared at it for long enough the answer would just fall into his lap. He distantly registered that Newt was speaking to him, half listening as he turned the Maze over in his head.

“-head of yours?”

“What?” Thomas asked, finally zoning back into the conversation.

Newt rolled his eyes, lightly shoving Thomas’s shoulder with his own. “What are you thinking about, Tommy?”

“Tommy?” Thomas questioned. Newt simply shrugged, taking another sip of that cursed drink of death and despair. Shaking off his confusion, Thomas turned his attention back to the Maze, frowning out into the night.

“Nobody ever goes into the Maze?” He asked, remembering the rules Alby had told him earlier. That one had bugged him. There was no way nobody had ever gone into the maze before. It was impossible that someone hadn’t tried.

“Trust me, the Maze is not a place where you want to be,” Newt answered, taking another sip of the same drink that had nearly burned holes into Thomas’s throat when he’d tried it. Newt downed mouthfuls without so much as a grimace.

Thomas silently gazed at the Maze walls again, the distant sound of chatter and the crackle of fire filling what was left empty by words.

“We’re stuck here, aren’t we?” He turned to Newt, enamoured by the way the firelight kissed his cheekbones, throwing his face into sharp relief and turning those warm, honey brown eyes into dark pools of night sky, reflections of the fire looking like stars in his irises. Newt sighed through his nose.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he shifted, turning around to face the fire and pointed at a group with a single finger lifted from his jar. “You see those guys? They’re the Runners. Every morning when the gates open, they run the maze, mapping it, looking for a way out. That guy in the middle in Minho, the Keeper of the Runners.”

“How long have they been looking?”

Newt paused for a moment, turning to look at Thomas. “Three years.”

“...Three years and they haven’t found anything yet?”

That brought a chuckle out of Newt, who settled against the log again, this time closer to Thomas. Close enough that Thomas could feel the body heat radiating from his arm that rested along the back of the log, right above Thomas’s shoulders. “It’s not as easy as it sounds, Tommy. Listen.”

At first, Thomas was confused, staring into Newt’s eyes like they held the answer. But once he heard it, it became too apparent to ignore. The mechanical grinding of gears groaning against each other, the sharp echo of stone sliding on stone. Almost like-

“That’s the Maze moving. Every night it changes,” Newt said. Thomas’s brain exploded with questions, about the Maze, about why they were put here, about what any of this meant.

“How is that even possible?” He murmured, staring down into his half-eaten dinner.

“Don’t ask me, ask the bastards who put us in here. Well, if you ever meet them. Maybe give them a nice right hook to the face while you’re at it,” he grinned for a moment before it slid off his face. “The truth is, the runners are the only shanks allowed in the maze. They’re the fastest and the strongest out of all of us. And a good thing too, because when they go out, they have to make it back before those gates close every night. If they don’t, they’re stuck in the maze, and nobody has ever survived a night in the maze before.”

Newt’s gaze held a weight to it that made Thomas feel his words deep in his chest. He pursed his lips, looking out at the Maze again. 

“What happens to them?”

Newt took another sip of his drink, staring out at the Maze with a look in his eye. A deep sort of sadness that one could really only gain from experience. It made Thomas’s heart squeeze in his chest. The thought of Newt surviving in this hellhole for three years… Thomas didn’t want to think about it. 

“We call them Grievers. They live in the Maze, only coming out at night. Of course, nobody’s seen one and lived to tell about it.”

The silence that followed after was thick. Heavy. Drenched in implications and experience, laden with guilt and grief.

“Well, that’s enough from me. I’m going to bed, and I suggest you do the same, it’ll be a long day tomorrow, even longer without proper rest.” With that, Newt disappeared, taking with him his heat and addictive citrus and cinnamon smell, leaving behind a cold patch against Thomas’s side. Sighing, Thomas stood, bringing his dishes to the Homestead and venturing off to the hammock Alby had shown him earlier, falling asleep to the sound of the Maze reworking its insides, thoughts swirling about the Maze, the Glade, and Newt

…oooOOOooo…

Newt had been right, it was a long day. Sweat trickled uncomfortably down his spine as he hauled another fence post into the ground, holding it still while others filled in the dirt around it. Finally, a pleasant breeze crawled over his back, carrying on it the comforting scent of citrus and cinnamon. Thomas perked up, looking around until his eyes landed on him, practically glowing golden in the sunlight as he talked to Alby about something, their hands flying as they spoke. 

“He’s taken, shuck face,” a familiar voice said. Thomas turned to face Gally, who was glaring at him with his arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“You’re-“

“The one who tossed your shuck face out of the Box? Sure did.” That’s… not what Thomas expected Gally to say. Now he didn’t know where Gally wanted to lead the conversation. Panicked, he blurted the first thing that came to his mind. 

“Have you ever been in the Maze?”

The question seemed to catch Gally off guard, his eyebrows raising impossibly high. 

“Back to work Greenie. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop thinking about the Maze.”

…oooOOOooo…

Thomas was released from the Builders once they finished the fence, everyone dispersing across the Glade. With no task, Thomas wandered around, his feet carrying him towards the Garden. Newt was picking green beans from the trellis above, dropping them into a large bucket at his feet. Thomas watched the lithe muscles in his arms twitch and roll with every movement, coiled tightly beneath his skin in a way that warned of power, out on display for anyone to see with the lack of his white overshirt. The brown of his tank top cut lines across his skin, leading Thomas’s eyes across his sharp collarbones and down the line of his arm. His machete strap cut off Thomas’s view to his left collarbone, and Thomas had never hated a tool more. He tripped on another hole, his stumble attracting Newt’s attention. 

“They cut you loose early, Tommy?” He asked, dutifully returning to his task. 

“Nah, we finished early. Don’t worry, I’m not slacking,” Thomas reassured. Newt snorted, a smile quirking one side of his lips up. 

“Didn’t think you were,” Newt said. “You don’t seem the type.” He dropped the last handful of green beans into the bucket and lifted it from the ground like it weighed nothing. Thomas felt his face grow hot, and he knew it wasn’t from the sun’s blazing rays. Newt raised an eyebrow at him as he passed, catching the change in Thomas’s scent. 

“You good there?” He asked while Thomas fell into step beside him. 

“Yup, just uh, peachy keen over here,” Thomas replied, turning his attention to the far reaches of the Glade. He felt Newt’s eyes remain on him for a moment too long before he looked away. The walls of the Maze looked especially imposing today, maybe because Thomas finally knew what laid behind them. He frowned, his brain eagerly grappling with the puzzle presented in front of him. Who sent them here, and why?

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“The Maze,” Thomas answered easily, splitting his focus between the conversation and his thoughts. The rest of Newt’s words registered in his brain, and he whipped his head to the blond. “My what?”

Newt just huffed out a laugh and pushed the doors to the Homestead open. “Delivery!” The kitchen was a flurry of activity, people rushing from counter to counter, knives a blur of steel as they sliced and chopped, preparing dinner for everyone. Several smells clamored for attention all at once, the savory smoke of meat grilling, the familiar punch of garlic, and a soft note of herbs and spices all but sent Thomas’s head spinning. A tall guy with close cropped black hair stood in the center, shouting orders and bouncing between three different fires to stir the pots that sat above them.

“Fry! Beans, where do you want ‘em?” Newt called. Fry glanced over and grinned at the sight. 

“Over on that counter, John’s on greens today,” Fry replied. He set down his stirring spoon and wiped his hands on his pants before extending it to Thomas. “I don’t think we’ve formally met, Green Bean. Name’s Frypan, and I keep all of you slintheads fed.”

“Thomas,” he replied, shaking Frypan’s hand. 

“Fry! Running low on water!” Someone shouted from across the counter. Frypan grinned.

“You busy, Greenie?”

“No, why?” Thomas said.

“Excellent,” Frypan let go of his hand and grabbed two buckets from beside the hearths. He shoved them into Thomas’s hands. “Get some water for us?”

“I- okay,” Thomas sighed in defeat, swiftly exiting the Homestead and heading towards the river. “Hold this post Greenie, carry this beam Thomas, get us water Thomas,” he muttered to himself, annoyed at being continually given grunt work. It had only been one day and he already felt like he’d done half the work in the Glade. He stumbled through the Deadheads, buckets rattling loudly in his hands. He reached a clearing, then stopped in his tracks. Scattered across the clearing were several, roughly made crosses, each one with a name messily carved into the horizontal piece of wood.

A graveyard.

Thomas felt the frustration fall from his bones like tender meat, steaming in a pile at his feet as he was left bare and cold, a skeleton rattling in the wind. He knelt down in front of the central grave, reading the name carved there.

George.

Thomas wondered who he had been. What had happened to him. He reached out to wipe the dirt from the cross when the snap of a stick had him rocketing back to his feet, his heart pounding. One of the other Gladers stood at the edge of the clearing, breathing heavily as he glared.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have- it’s not my place. My bad,” he said. Recognition flitted quickly across his mind, creasing his brow and tilting his head. “You’re Ben, right? You’re a Builder, we installed the fence together today.”

Ben didn’t reply, still standing, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. Thomas noticed a thin sheen of sweat covering his face, the veins in his neck bulging, crawling up the column of his throat like blue spiderwebs.

“Uh, you okay? You don’t look too hot,” Thomas took a tentative step forwards, his boots rustling the leaves beneath him. It was then that the horrible stench hit him, making bile crawl high in his throat. From what he could remember, Ben smelled like wood and earth, something grounding and almost comforting. Now, the smell of rotten fruit overpowered his usual scent, a sweet kind of decay that sat thick in the back of your throat, choking you with its cloying aroma. Thomas coughed just as Ben mumbled something, his lips moving but too quiet to be heard over Thomas’s cough. “I’m sorry, what was that?” He choked out, still coughing, nearly gagging.

“I… remember you,” Ben growled. Warning bells went off in Thomas’s head. “From before. This is all your fault.”

“What?” Thomas asked, confused in every sense of the word. He couldn’t remember jack from before the Maze, how could Ben?

“This is all your fucking fault!” Ben charged Thomas, the terrifying smell of angry alpha kicking Thomas into high gear, injecting fear for his life into his veins. He dropped his buckets and ran. His feet pounded against the ground as he pushed himself the fastest he could go, adrenaline pumping through his veins as Ben growled and shouted from behind him.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Ben roared. Thomas burst out from the Deadheads, barreling straight for the first group of people he saw. Everyone looked over as soon as the movement and noise caught their attention.

“Help!” Thomas shouted, desperation and terror cracking his voice. Everyone began to run towards him, shouting to everyone else. Thomas sensed Ben before he felt him, the other yanking his collar and tackling him to the ground. His head slammed into the dirt, sending his vision spinning, a ringing in his ears muffling everything around him. It felt like he was moving through water, unable to fight fast enough when Ben straddled him and clamped his fingers around Thomas’s throat, squeezing. Lightheaded already, Thomas didn’t stand a chance, his weak clawing at Ben’s forearms doing next to nothing. The smell of rotten fruit got stronger, like somebody had just dumped a pile of it right next to his head. Or maybe it was because Ben was two inches from his face, fangs bared as he screamed at Thomas, spittle flying as his eyes roved unfocused in anger.

Something blurred above him, and suddenly Thomas could breathe again. His lungs stuttered back to life, gulping down air as he coughed and gasped. His senses slowly returned to him. The first thing that hit him was the stinging spice of cinnamon, flooding his nose and lighting his body on fire. He reveled in the comforting warmth. He tilted his head just enough to see what was going on, eyes squinted against the glare of the sun. He watched as Newt brandished the end of a shovel at Ben’s throat, a snarl twisting his face into a portrait of fury. Strands of his long hair had come out of its usual ponytail, hovering around his face and swaying as he shouted, threatening Ben with his shovel.

“Don’t touch him!” He barked, pulling the shovel back as a threat. Other Gladers held down Ben’s limbs as the remaining group surrounded them. Chuck fell to his knees next to Thomas, rubbing his back as he hacked up a lung.

“What happened?” He whisper yelled.

“Newt! Calm down,” Alby ordered. 

“He hurt Thomas!” Newt shouted, his voice raw and raspy and fuck he was hot. Thomas shoved the thought from his brain, now was most certainly not the time.

“We know!” Alby shouted back. Newt went silent, his mouth clenching shut even as his grip on the shovel tightened, his knuckles turning a ghostly white. Alby turned down to Ben, examining him, taking in his sallow skin, his wild eyes. “Lift his shirt.”

“No, no I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Ben pleaded, his voice thick as Gally pulled the hem of his shirt up, revealing a red sting with black veins spreading from the epicenter. Everyone began to murmur.

“He was stung,” Gally announced. Not that it needed announcing, the whole Glade was there already.

“In broad daylight?” Winston questioned. The Glade went silent, so silent they could hear the wind rustling the corn in the fields.

“Dude, did he bite you?” Chuck exclaimed. Newt’s head whipped over to where the two of them sat, Chuck pulling Thomas’s collar to the side. Ben had popped the buttons when he grabbed Thomas’s collar to tackle him, leaving his shirt open at the top unlike it had been so far. Thomas slapped a hang to his neck, hoping he wasn’t bleeding to death sitting in front of the whole Glade. Instead of a fresh wound, his fingers met raised scar tissue. A healed bite.

“No, it’s healed over, Chuck, that had to have happened before the Maze,” he breathed in relief. A quiet gasp drew his gaze to Newt, whose grip on his shovel had gone slack as he stared, jaw dropped at Thomas.

“Is that… a mating bite?” he asked, his voice so quiet it was difficult to hear, almost as if he spoke any louder the illusion would shatter and Thomas would, in fact, be bleeding out on the ground from a bite that Ben had given him. But it didn’t, and he wasn’t.

Realization slammed into Thomas, hard enough to force the air from his lungs in a choked out wheeze.

Oh.

Oh.

The entire Glade burst into noise, people murmuring and shouting and gasping. Thomas’s head spun from the noise, but he could only focus on the blond in front of him, the sharp cinnamon from earlier fading into something so much better. Bright and warm and elated in ways that Thomas didn’t know what to do with besides drink down the scent of his mate.

His mate.

God, how wonderful that was.

“Settle down!” Alby ordered. The Glade quieted, save for the occasional whisper here and there. “That” he said, gesturing between Thomas and Newt, “can be handled later. Right now, we have bigger issues at hand.”

“We have to banish him,” Minho piped up, his arms crossed over his chest. Alby pursed his lips, thinking hard about his decision.

“Council meeting! Gally, Winston, take him to the Slammer and lock him there until we decide what to do.” Gally and Winston nodded, hauling Ben to his feet as he sobbed, his entire body having gone limp as he apologized over and over again. Thomas’s chest ached as he watched Ben get dragged away. It wasn’t his fault Ben got stung, but that didn’t make him any less guilty about it.

—

Teresa gasped, watching with wide eyes as Chuck pulled Thomas’s shirt collar to the side, revealing a mating bite that mirrored the one on Newt’s neck. Her notebook and pen clatters to the ground, abandoned in favor of covering her mouth with her hand as Ava Paige watched impassively over her shoulder.

He didn’t…

They’d noticed Newt’s mating bite early on, as soon as he had discovered it himself. The scar had still been pink, barely healed over. They assumed it was one of the other subjects, an action done in the heat of passion in an ocean of uncertainty. They hadn’t tracked a mating bite in any of the other subjects, assuming it had been one of the subjects that had met an unfortunately early end.

She’d never thought that it would be Thomas.

“Did you know about this?” Dr. Paige asked, her voice even and her brow creased.

Teresa shook her head, keeping her eyes glued on the blue-toned display in front of her.

“No, I- he never told me,” she breathed. Dr. Paige pursed her lips and nodded.

“Proceed with the experiment as planned, but keep a close eye on those two.” Everyone else replied with their affirmative as Dr. Paige walked out of the lab, her heels echoing coldly in the observation room. Teresa cleared her throat and picked up her notebook, her hands shaking as she pressed the tip of her pen to a fresh page.

Kin recognition, the effect of memory loss on mating bonds. The title felt too cold, too clinical for this. Teresa felt her heart pound as nerves flooded her system, her eyes tracking Thomas’s expressions. She was suddenly grateful that she was a beta, her scent mild and almost nonexistent, so she was able to conceal her emotions easily.

She wouldn’t know how to explain her sudden fear to the other researchers. So, she took a deep breath, and kept writing observations, ignoring the gnawing feeling of betrayal that ached deep in her stomach.

Please just lay low, Thomas.

But even as the thought formed in her head, she knew that she was asking the impossible.

—

The Council meeting was quick. Everyone voted to banish Ben except for Thomas, his hands tucked into his crossed arms, his knee bouncing as he replayed the sequence of events over and over in his head, desperately looking for something that could bring them to a different outcome, a different fate. Everyone slowly filed out of the Council House, leaving Thomas sitting alone, Chuck had tried to tug Thomas out the door with him, but Zart had told him to leave off, eventually leaving Thomas alone.

Well, mostly alone.

Newt sat down next to Thomas, the bench creaking beneath his weight. For a moment, they just sat together, staring at the floor in silence, the weight of the day's events heavy on their shoulders.

“How are you feeling?” Newt eventually broke the silence, his voice echoing in the empty building.

“Horrible,” Thomas answered truthfully. He didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.

“It’s not your fault, Tommy,” Newt reassured. Thomas shook his head.

“I know. I just- I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault, somehow.”

“It’s not.” Newt’s tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. Thomas gave up on his staring contest with his shoes and looked up at Newt. Really looked at him. He examined his dark brown eyes, the curve of his nose, the light smattering of freckles across his cheekbones, searching for something, anything that sparked recognition.

But nothing did.

He pursed his lips and looked away again, sighing. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am, I’m always right,” Newt teased. Thomas couldn’t help but snort at that, rubbing a hand across his face. Newt rested a warm hand on Thomas’s shoulder, sending sparks tingling up and down his spine. “I’ll leave you to your brooding, then. Talk later?”

“Yeah, talk later,” Thomas smiled up at Newt as he stood to leave.

The door closed with the finality of a death knell, plunging Thomas back into his darkest thoughts.

…oooOOOooo…

Ben’s banishment had been… horrible. He’d been so scared, so betrayed, even though he knew this would happen if he got stung. Everyone knew it.

To try and avoid his thoughts, Thomas had tossed himself from his hammock, stalking off into the Glade, listening to how his boots swished in the long grass. The stars twinkled silently above him, unhidden in the cloudless sky. Thomas let his feet carry him wherever they pleased, eventually ending up on the packed dirt path to the Gardens. He paused once the fields came into view, revealing a shadowy figure standing at the edge. Thomas’s gut dropped, still on edge from Ben’s attack. But the soothing smell of citrus and cinnamon floated over on the tail of the nighttime breeze, and Thomas felt every ounce of tension melt out of his body.

Taking a deep breath, he strode over to Newt, not bothering to announce his presence. He knew he didn’t need to, Newt turned his head as soon as Thomas was close enough to smell, the whites of his eyes bright in the moonlight, unmoving as he stared at Thomas.

For a moment they just stood together, gazing out at the field of vegetables in silence, surrounded by the odd feeling of familiarity.

“It’s weird, you know. This whole mated with no memories thing,” Newt said, his voice like honey under the cover of the stars. Thomas nodded, feeling the heat that rose to his cheeks.

“Yeah. I imagine it’s worse for you,” Thomas replied. 

“Worse for me? You only have three days of memories, you didn’t even know you had a mating bite until today, I’d imagine that’s quite jarring,” Newt pointed out. Thomas just shrugged. 

“I guess. But you’ve been thinking you’ll never meet your mate for years. I don’t have that kind of… pain,” he settled on. Pain wasn’t quite the right word, but yearning or mourning felt too real for the situation. It felt too sharp to wax poetic about a long lost lover he didn’t even know he had until that day.

“I imagine it’ll feel the same in the end, though,” Newt mumbled, and Thomas couldn’t help but to agree.

The nighttime breeze brushed its soft fingertips against their skin, tugging gently at their clothes and hair as they stood on the precipice. Thomas cleared his throat, catching the way Newt turned to look at him in his peripheral vision.

“I don’t think I thanked you for um, for Ben, so, thanks” Thomas said, scratching the side of his face just to have something to do with his hands and to stop himself from falling headfirst into Newt’s stare.

“It’s nothing,” Newt mumbled. Silence blanketed them once again. It should have been strange, to have nothing to say to the person you mated, but it felt… natural? Comfortable, Thomas eventually settled on. Newt’s presence was comfortable.

“Where do we go from here?” Thomas blurted. 

“…I don’t know,” Newt replied. “I mean, I’ve never done this before.”

Thomas snorted, shaking his head and finally, finally working up the strength to face Newt. He looked radiant beneath the moonlight, his cheekbones casting sharp shadows over his face, like he’d been carved into stone and dipped in the stars. His blond hair practically glowed, and his eyes were black holes that threatened to pull Thomas wholly into their depths. Scratch that, he was already falling. 

Fuck.

He couldn’t fall for a guy he’d known for three days. Or could he? They were mated, but it wasn’t like either of them remembered that. All Thomas could remember was the feeling of safety Newt’s smell brought, how he melted into the feeling whenever Newt was near. 

“You keep doing that,” Newt’s voice pulled him from his musing.

“Doing what?” Thomas asked, pulled back into reality from his thoughts.

“Staring at me.” Newt’s tone was blunt, but a crooked smile began to worm its way onto his mouth. Thomas thought it was beautiful.

He shrugged. “You’re nice to look at.”

Newt snorted and ripped his gaze away, rubbing the side of his neck as he stared out across the field, his fingers dancing over his mating bite in a way that made Thomas feel like it was a habit.

“Yeah, well, we mated for some reason, right? Attraction had to be a part of it.” Thomas laughed at that, light and quick. He was finding that he really enjoyed talking to Newt, their conversation flowing light and easy. Thomas itched to touch his own mating bite, but some resistant part of his brain told him to stop before his hand even twitched. 

“…You’re not too bad yourself,” Newt mumbled. Thomas turned his attention to the other, only to find his head turned away. The tips of his ears poked out from his fluffy hair, bright red against the pale blonde. Thomas couldn’t help but smile. 

Adorable.

Newt whipped his head back towards Thomas, his cheeks stained a splotchy red and his eyes wide. 

“I am not!” Ah. Thomas hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He grimaced, exaggerating the expression.

“Sorry,” he whispered, not really feeling sorry at all. “But you totally are.”

“I am not ‘adorable’!” Newt protested, his fingers making air quotes as he spoke. “I am an alpha, and the second in command to this rowdy lot, a position I earned mind you, so I am a leader, and strict and intimidating and most definitely not adorable.”

Thomas couldn’t help but laugh at Newt’s words. “True true, you are a leader and strict and intimidating… but you’re also adorable.”

Newt inhaled and opened his mouth, as if to argue back, but he stopped before the words even left his mouth, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled again. 

“You smell like rain when you’re happy.” The words seemed to slip out unbidden, real and raw in ways that knocked the breath from Thomas’s lungs, stripping him bare and leaving him to dry in the sun’s blistering rays. Warm contentment filled his veins, bubbling like carbonation at Newt’s words. It wasn’t even a compliment, really, just an observation. But it still made Thomas feel like he was flying up into the sky, high off of citrus and cinnamon. 

“Are you purring?” Newt asked, a bright, teasing expression of wonder easy across his face. Thomas immediately cut himself off, his face blossoming with heat because yes, he had been. Not even a half-hearted purr either, a full on echo through the lungs kind of purr.

“No,” he quickly denied. A bright grin spread across Newt’s face. 

“You totally were.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thomas replied, looking anywhere but Newt, resting his hands on his hips and turning towards the Homestead. Newt laughed, the sound clear and captivating in the empty night sky. 

“Now now, Tommy, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a completely natural, adorable reaction to being content. How could I blame your instincts for responding to my irresistible charm?”

“Oh, so you’re irresistible now?” Thomas rolled his eyes, turning back towards Newt. 

“You seemed to think so before,” Newt responded, pointing at his mating bite. They both quieted at the reminder. What a strange feeling it was, to know that something integral was missing from your life when you didn’t even remember it in the first place. Newt’s scent brought a wave of serenity that felt so much like home that it made Thomas doubt he’d ever had any other place to call it, but he couldn’t remember how they met, or how they fell in love, or when that addicting citrus and cinnamon smell became so ingrained into his very being that his body remembered the comfort it brought even when his brain didn’t.

They fell into awkward silence again. It was horrible. It had just been bright and easy and now they’d been tossed back into the teeming pit of uncertainty, lines in the sand kicked and blurred enough that neither of them knew where they really stood. It frustrated Thomas. Sick of the weird air that surrounded them, he stuck his hand out to Newt.

“I’m Thomas, nice to meet you” he said. Newt barked out a laugh in surprise, but he obliged, taking Thomas’s hand in his and shaking it once. Twice. He didn’t let go, his palm warm and rough against Thomas’s.

“Newt, a pleasure,” he replied. Their eyes locked, hands staying clasped between them as they sank into the warmth of each other’s touch. Thomas picked up on the sudden spike in citrus in Newt’s scent, teasingly raising an eyebrow.

“Good to know I’ve still got it,” Thomas said. Newt rolled his eyes, letting go of Thomas’s hand. 

“Yeah yeah, laugh all you want. Your hand was warm and I’m cold,” Newt said. Thomas smiled, having felt the heat of Newt’s hand, knowing he was lying. 

“Ah, I’m seeing this ‘irresistible charm’ you speak of,” Thomas teased. Newt laughed again, and Thomas wanted to make him laugh as much as possible so he could keep hearing it. Newt had a lovely laugh. 

“Please excuse my rudeness, Your Majesty,” Newt said, mock bowing his head, twirling his hand for extra measure. Thomas snorted at the display, raising his eyebrows as Newt straightened, a teasing half-smile on his lips. Thomas could only stare, his own bemused smile fighting to express itself. Newt nodded, then took a step back towards Homestead, ending their night of careful conversation. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

“Goodnight, Newt.” Thomas watched as Newt turned and walked away, his silhouette merging with the shadows of the Homestead, leaving Thomas alone at the edge of their carrot patch. Sighing, Thomas resigned himself to go to bed too, sure the next day was going to be no easier than the last.

…oooOOOooo…

Thomas watched from a distance as Alby and Minho jogged into the Maze, a small crowd of Gladers waiting at the entrance to see them off. He leaned against the shovel he was using to dig a trench, watching the crowd slowly disperse.

“Back to work, Greenie!” Zart shouted. Thomas took one last lingering glance at the gate, then resumed his digging. The sun beat against his back, drops of sweat falling down his spine and face. The only perk of digging this God awful trench was that he could see the Gardens from his position, able to gaze at the way the light filtered through Newt’s hair, turning the blond to gold, his bare arms flexing every time he worked, deft fingers untangling twine or vines. Thomas felt his presence like a fire in a hearth behind him, a familiar, comforting heat that sank into his bones, soothing the ache in his chest.

Another perk was that Newt could see him too.

Occasionally, they’d glance at each other at the same time, their eyes locking for a moment before Thomas looked away, embarrassed at being caught but elated at the prospect that Newt was looking at him too. The day passed on like that, the sun above bearing down on him while the sun to his side kept him afloat, drawing him in with a need that tugged stronger than his need for water, a deep ache in his chest that was only soothed when Newt was near him.

When they finished the trench, Zart let everyone go to wash up before dinner. The sun sat low in the sky, nearly cresting the side of the Maze walls. Thomas wiped his face with the bottom of his face, then paused, frowning at the group of people that had amassed near the open gate to the Maze. He jogged over to join them, squinting into the shadowed hall.

“Where are they?” Winston muttered, peering around everyone to desperately search for the missing Gladers, as if he had missed them before. Thomas began to shoulder his way to the front of the group, ignoring the protests and rude words thrown his way. He emerged at the front, the group of Gladers stopped a healthy foot away from the gates to the Maze.

“They should’ve been back by now,” Newt said from his position next to Thomas. His scent had gone sour, the bright citrus turning darker as his anxiety grew. His arms were crossed tight across his chest, fingers twisted into the loose fabric of his overshirt.

“Come on guys, can’t we send someone in after them?” Thomas argued, gesturing into the Maze, even as it creaked ominously in front of them.

“It’s against the rules,” Gally said, squatting next to Chuck. His eyebrows nearly connected in the middle from how hard he was glaring at the interior of the Maze. “Either they make it back or they don’t.”

“We can’t risk losing anyone else,” Newt clarified, giving a pointed look to Thomas. His jaw twitched from how hard he was clenching it.

“There!” Chuck shouted, pointing into the Maze, where Minho and Alby had just rounded the final corner to the gate. Everyone began shouting, encouraging them on. Except, they were slowed by Alby’s limp body hanging from Minho’s arms. Minho gasped and stumbled as fast as he could with Alby hanging off of him, but it still wasn’t fast enough.

With a terrible, thundering rumble, the gates began to close.

Everyone screamed louder, waving their arms as if trying to drag the Gladers to safety by sheer willpower. The stench of fear was strong off of every single one of them, thick in the back of Thomas’s throat, coating his tongue in a mucousy membrane that made it harder to swallow.

“They’re not gonna make it,” Newt mumbled, eyes vacant as he stared into the Maze, fingertips pressed firmly to his lips. Thomas stared at Minho and Alby with the sinking realization that Newt was right. They were too far, and the gates were closing too fast. Thomas saw the realization dawn on Minho, a desperate kind of fear washing over his face as he screamed, his voice cracking as he drove himself harder. It wasn’t enough.

Thomas’s feet were moving before he even realized.

He launched himself into the Maze, rushing through the gates before they could crush him like a grape beneath their towering stone walls. He was just barely able to throw himself through before they crunched shut with the finality of a death knell, the last lingering wisps of Newt’s body heat dissipating from his wrist where he’d tried to grab Thomas to hold him back. Panting, Thomas looked up at Minho, who had fallen to his knees beside Alby’s limp body.

“Good job,” he cheered, sarcasm thick in his tone. His usual faint cedar and salt scent turned acrid, nearly burning the inside of Thomas’s nose. “You just killed yourself.”

“Wh-what?” Thomas panted, staring in shock as Minho sat down on the ground, staring blankly at one of the walls. Thomas scrambled to his feet, sending one last glance at the towering gates behind him before turning his focus to Alby, dropping to his knees to examine his body. A large gash trickled blood into his hairline, and a puncture in his shirt ringed in red sat just below his rib cage. “What happened to him?’

“What does it look like?” Minho bit out. “He got stung.”

“What happened to his head?”

Minho was silent for a moment, letting the creaks and groans of the Maze weigh heavy on their shoulders before speaking again. “I did what I had to do.”

Thomas pursed his lips, looking back at Alby. If he’d been anything like how Ben was, Thomas didn’t blame him.

A screeching roar accompanied an uptick in Maze noises, the grind of stone on stone building to a fever pitch. Minho hauled himself to his feet, stumbling back into the Maze from where they sat.

“Come on, the Maze is already changing,” he said, soaked in the scent of grim defeat.

Thomas wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Help me get him up.” He began to tug at Alby’s body, struggling to find a position that he’d be able to move in. After a moment of silence, he glanced up at Minho, who still had his back to Thomas and Alby. “We can’t just leave him here, Minho.”

Taking a deep breath in, Minho slowly sighed, turning back to Thomas with a disbelieving look in his eye. But still, he walked back to them and helped Thomas pick Alby up, shuffling his body over to a wall covered in ivy. Thomas tied Alby to one of the vines, then handed Minho the other end to pull on to lift him into cover beneath the ivy. They were almost high enough when that same stench of rotting fruit and motor oil flooded Thomas’s nose, making him cough and nearly drop the rope.

“You shank, this was your idea, don’t go tapping out now,” Minho hissed, tightening his hold on the vine.

“I’m not tapping out I just- do you not smell that?” Thomas glanced back at Minho incredulously. Minho shook his head and rubbed the sweat from his face using his shoulder.

“I’m a beta, whatever you’re smelling is too far away for me to pick it up,” Minho replied. They pulled on the rope again, finally lifting Alby high enough for him to be safe for the night.

Well, safe enough. Hopefully.

Trying his best to not gag at the smell surrounding him, Thomas crouched down to search for somewhere to tie the vine off on. An ungodly half-mechanical, half-animal, all-nightmare fuel screech knocked him from his search, rotting fruit overtaking every sense Thomas had, sending his head spinning and his lungs spasming. Thomas could feel the moment Minho finally smelled it, his entire body going stiff.

“Sorry Thomas,” he whispered, dropping the vine and running away down the twisting pathways of the Maze. “You’re on your own!”

Thomas grunted as Alby’s full weight was dropped onto him alone, the vine tightening around his hand as he was yanked up from the ground. Struggling to plant his feet again, he looked behind him at Minho’s retreating form, anger building hot and bright in his stomach. 

“Minho!” Thomas hissed, glancing between him and Alby. “Damn it, damn it!”

He tried his best to hike Alby up higher, but it was no use, Alby was too heavy. Huffing, Thomas gritted his teeth and pressed his forehead against the Maze floor.

“Come on. Think, Thomas,” he breathed. Another screech echoed through the Maze, this time closer. Metal clinking on stone accompanied the call, a sound that sent Thomas’s heart pounding as his ice cold fear dropped into his stomach and leeched down his spine. It was close, too close for Thomas to run. Hurriedly, he rolled beneath the ends of the vines that enshrouded Alby, kicking them in front of him as he held onto Alby’s tether with all of his strength.

The silence felt deafening to his ears, all of the previous noise of the Maze wiped away, drowning Thomas in silence and the rancid odor of sugary rot. 

A large, metal claw hammered down inches from Thomas's nose from behind the vines. Thomas took a deep breath and held it, worried that he’d just vomit from the smell and give his location away. The Griever slowly crawled past, clicking and snarling as its metal legs clinked against the floor, strangely delicate for a creature that size. Thomas watched wide eyed as it walked, waiting for the moment the spidery legs disappeared from view. He strained his ears, trying to hear if the beast was still near, but he heard nothing. 

He carefully crawled out from beneath the vines, quickly tying Alby off before taking a deep breath.

And consequently gagging on the taste of Griever. Bile rose fast in Thomas's throat but he choked it down, his attention ripped from his body to the monster dangling above him, its body supported by its sharp, mechanical legs driven into the Maze’s walls.

The Griever shrieked, then dropped right on top of him. Thomas ran away as fast as he could, arms pumping as his feet pounded against the ground, carrying him fast, but not fast enough, away from the Griever. He skidded around corners as he tried to lose the monster, ducking into narrow pathways and weaving between passages, but the Griever still followed hot on his tail. Desperate, he kicked off the wall and clawed at another patch of ivy, hauling himself over the top of the Maze sub-wall. He screamed as the Griever crested the wall nearly on top of him, scrambling back to his feet and bolting once again. 

The chase along the thin wall top sent Thomas’s heart into overdrive, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he searched for a way to survive. A way to get out.

Instead, he was faced with a sheer drop that would certainly kill him and a Griever close on his tail. Another Maze wall loomed in front of the drop, nearly too far for Thomas to reach if he had a head start. Looking between his options, Thomas took the running leap towards the opposite wall, hoping the ivy would catch him and that he wouldn’t end up a rusty stain on the Maze floor.

The ivy held, thankfully, but it held too well. The Griever followed him off the edge of the sub-wall, clawing into the ivy next to him. Its stinger stabbed recklessly at him, ricocheting off the stone with each swerve of Thomas’s head.

Hands sweaty and desperate, his grip on the ivy was slipping, and suddenly he was careening towards the Maze floor. He caught himself with a shout, pulling the ivy close to his body. The Griever dropped down to meet him, only for the ivy to slowly snap and peel itself from the Maze wall, sending both of them tumbling down to the ground.

Thomas closely avoided landing on his neck, curling into himself at the last moment and taking the impact on his shoulder. It sent knives through his nerves, igniting fire across his skin. Unable to devote the needed attention to his pain in the moment, Thomas grit his teeth and hauled himself to his feet, running as fast as he could manage off into the Maze.

He collided with another body and he swung a fist, not going down without a fight.

“It’s me, shuckface! You crazy son of a bitch,” Minho exclaimed as he dodged, grabbing Thomas’s shoulders and sending another bolt of pain up his arm. Thomas grimaced as Minho grabbed his wrist and pulled, tugging him down the twisting pathways of the Maze.

“This way!” he shouted over his shoulder.

It’s not like you’ve given me a choice, Thomas thought bitterly, trying to ignore the blinding pain that lanced through his muscles. They paused at an intersection, Minho’s head cocked, listening to the Maze. A rumble sounded from their right, and Minho pulled them towards it.

“This section is closing, we can lose it over here!” Minho said, letting go of Thomas’s wrist to run faster. Thomas followed him for a second, then stopped, a horribly stupid idea forming in his head. He turned back to the way they’d come, eyes scanning the passages.

“Come on, what are you doing?” Minho shouted from the far end of the passage. Gears began to clank, the Maze wall protruding as it changed its labyrinthine walls in preparation for the next day.

“I’m making sure it doesn’t follow us,” Thomas muttered to himself. The Griever emerged from around the corner, screeching in anger as it searched for them. Thomas cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Hey!”

The Griever’s head snapped towards him, and it took off at a gallop, lethal intent thick in its movements. Thomas began to sprint down the passage, mirroring the exact same thing he’d done to get into the Maze in the first place. He heard the Griever follow behind him, grinning wildly as he raced against time to make it to Minho, who was screaming at him from the safe part of the passage.

The walls closed tighter and tighter around him, until Thomas pulled himself from the far end, stumbling into Minho’s arms as the walls clamped shut around the Griever, sending its guts and fluids rocketing into the hallway. Griever guts smelled like their characteristic rotting fruit smell if it was mixed with vomit and hot garbage, and ten times more potent.

Thomas collapsed to his hands and knees, and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach onto the Maze floor.

…oooOOOooo…

Newt paced like a caged animal at the entrance of the Maze, biting his nails as his eyes darted between every scratch, crack, and hole in the concrete of the gate. His hair was a right mess from the amount of times he’d run his hand through it, his face still smudged with yesterday’s garden dirt. The rest of the Gladers stood at a healthy distance away from him, unable to get too close unless they wanted their eyes and noses burned by the sheer acid smell that was pouring off of Newt. Gally stood a little farther than everyone else, frowning at Newt as he paced.

“Come on, Newt. You’re gonna drive yourself insane if you keep at this,” he stated. Newt whirled on him, glaring with so much heat you would’ve expected Gally to burst into flames from Newt’s look alone. 

“Don’t talk to me,” he growled, turning back to the closed gates. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but Newt had been waiting long before the sky even turned purple, camped out at the closed entrance to the Maze.

“What if he didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare say that!” Newt thrust a finger at Gally and stalked towards him, sending the other Gladers around him stumbling away and covering their noses and mouths. Newt grabbed Gally’s collar and pulled him in close, glaring right into his wide blue eyes. “I just got him back, I’m not-”

The Maze walls groaned, their giant gears waking up from their slumber. Newt dropped Gally and ran as fast as he could back to the entrance, staring up at the towering Gates of Hell above him and waiting for them to open.

The sun crested the wall of the Maze, bright and golden, just as the doors began to creak open, revealing the very path Thomas, Minho, and Alby had been in last night.

Empty.

Newt tried not to let it crush his spirits. They could’ve moved. They could be right around the corner, if only he could just-

A hand gripped his bicep, and Newt turned to see Gally frowning at him, his fingers tightening around his arm.

“Your stupid boyfriend already killed himself, don’t you dare pull the same stunt,” he growled. Newt flinched at Gally’s words, knowing that the other didn’t know how close he was to the truth. He yanked his arm from Gally’s grip, rubbing at the spot where Gally’s fingers nearly bruised him with their vice-like grip. He turned to face the Maze again, squinting into the dark passage even as the sun illuminated the way, casting everything into sharp relief in front of his eyes.

Moments passed, each one stretching longer than the last, Newt’s hope trickling away the longer he stood. Just as he was about to turn away, defeat sharp in his throat, Chuck gasped.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. Newt jerked back towards the Maze, almost not believing his eyes at the sight.

Thomas and Minho were hauling Alby’s limp body out from one of the side passages, their stumbling steps getting quicker once they saw the entrance.

A laugh, incredulous and joyous, forced its way up Newt’s throat, the single bark of laughter turning into shocked, ecstatic laughter. 

“Thomas! Minho!” He shouted, igniting the cheers of the other Gladers, who had all crowded around the entrance of the Maze. They whooped and hollered as Thomas and Minho hobbled out of the Maze, battered and bruised but alive.

He watched Thomas’s face split into a grin, bright and golden and perfect as he tumbled onto the grass.

Newt fell to his knees next to Thomas and pulled him into a fierce hug, cradling the back of his head with one hand and gripping the back of his shirt with the other, almost as if he was afraid the Maze would take him back if he didn’t hold on tight enough. Thomas returned the hug with just as much force, burying his face into the crook of Newt’s neck and breathing in deeply, as if he needed it to live. Newt inhaled Thomas’s scent, the smell of petrichor and grass, and felt himself relax, all of the tension that had been keeping him upright since the night before falling off his body as he melted into their embrace. Thomas’s body was warm and alive against his, their hearts racing in tandem as they breathed together.

A warm, solid hand clapped Newt on the shoulder and he looked to his side at Minho, who nodded solemnly at him. Newt grabbed his best friend and pulled him into their hug as well, gripping Minho’s shoulder as if he needed it to remain tethered to the ground. He almost did, his pure elation had him feeling like he’d float up into the sky if he wasn’t careful enough.

Everyone crowded around them, looking at them in awe and examining Alby’s body. Chuck was the first to notice the sting in Alby’s stomach.

“You guys saw a Griever?” he whispered, fear turning his tone sharp, disbelieving.

“Yeah I saw one,” Thomas answered from where he sat curled into Newt’s side, his hand finding Newt’s and lacing their fingers together. Newt couldn’t help the warmth that flooded his veins from the gesture.

“He didn’t just see one. He killed it,” Minho corrected. The Glade fell silent as the weight of the confession rolled over them, sitting heavy like a ball of lead in their palms.

“Are you serious?” Newt said, staring into Thomas’s eyes. Thomas pursed his lips and nodded, face grim even at the delightful news.

“We have to go back there and check it out,” he said.

“Woah woah, slow your roll, slinthead,” Gally interrupted. “You broke the rules. You’re not going anywhere except for the Slammer.”

“We have to have the med-jacks check him out first, make sure the Griever didn’t take a chunk out of his leg or something,” Newt pointed out. Gally glared down at Thomas, giving him a brief once-over.

“He looks fine to me,” he shrugged. Newt scoffed, rising to his feet. Regrettably, he had to let go of Thomas’s hand to do so, but greater issues needed to be handled first.

“All three of them need a meal and a look-over from Clint and Jeff, so get your head out of your ass and bring Alby to the med tent. We’ll have a council meeting after. Or do I need to remind you who is in charge here?” Newt stood to his full height. Which wasn’t much taller than Gally, but it gave him a slight edge. The rest of the Gladers “ooooooh”ed at the display, watching as Gally tried his best to come up with a justification for why his way was better.

When he couldn’t, he just growled and stalked off, leaving the rest of the Gladers standing, staring after him.

“Come on everyone, chop chop. Let’s bring these three to the med bay. Chuck, let Fry know to whip something up real quick,” Newt said, clasping Thomas’s hand and hauling him to his feet. Everyone dispersed, some following Chuck towards the Homestead, and others surrounding Alby to lift him up. Newt didn’t leave Thomas’s side for the entire time Clint checked him over, protectiveness glowing hot in his chest as he leaned against the wall of the med bay. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, trying desperately to keep his emotions under control every time Thomas so much as winced when Clint poked a bruise.

“Newt, go stand outside,” Clint ordered, glancing up at him from where he was testing the mobility of Thomas’s shoulder. Apparently he’d slammed it pretty hard in the Maze. 

“What?” Newt asked, incredulous. 

“You’re clogging the air with your stupid macho alpha nonsense, go stand outside so I can focus on checking over Thomas.”

Heat bloomed quick across Newt’s cheeks, the statement dousing him in cold water. He floundered for a moment, searching for an argument against Clint besides I can’t stand to be apart from Tommy for more than two seconds to make sure he doesn’t go running off into the Maze again.

“I’m fine, Newt. You can wait outside,” Thomas said, his big brown eyes staring up at Newt, shining with amusement. Huffing, Newt pushed off the wall and stalked outside, walking until he could lean against the nearby fence and watch the door of the med bay. 

His eyes zeroed in on movement by the door, only to deflate slightly when Minho walked out instead of Thomas. Immediately spotting him, Minho jogged over.

“Haven’t you had enough running for today?” Newt commented, not moving his attention from the door. 

“I can never get enough,” Minho sighed, sarcasm thick in his tone. Newt couldn’t help the small twitch up of the corner of his mouth. “What’s got your panties in a twist? Boyfriend hurt?”

“Slim it, Minho,” Newt jabbed, heatless and familiar banter between the two friends.

“You smell like someone just dumped acid on you, it’s starting to burn my nose, and that’s saying something,” Minho tapped the side of his nose, raising his eyebrows at Newt. He clapped a hand on Newt’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. “Relax, Newt. He’ll be fine.”

“Yeah sure, let me just relax when my mate spent the night in the Maze when nobody has ever survived it before,” Newt growled. Minho leaned back slightly, and Newt sighed, forcing himself to calm down before he singed Minho’s eyebrows off. 

Minho was silent for a moment, both of them watching the door to the med bay, waiting. “I don’t know what he was like before the Maze, but if he was anything like how he is now, you picked a good one, Newt. He has better instincts than any Runner I’ve ever seen.” He clapped his hand on Newt’s shoulder one more time before pushing off the fence, beginning the walk over to the Council House.

Newt sighed heavily, turning Minho’s words around in his head, thinking about the events of the night over and over again.

…oooOOOooo…

“Just some minor scratches and bruises, rest that shoulder and you’ll be good as new in a few days,” Clint said, finally stepping back from Thomas.

“Thanks man,” Thomas replied, standing from the cot.

“Now get out of here before Newt rips my door off its hinges,” Clint grumbled, turning over to his work station to organize everything. 

“Yeah, yeah okay,” he breathed, exiting the med bay. The sun nearly blinded him as soon as he left the building, forcing him to blink rapidly as his eyes adjusted. He immediately spotted–well, more smelled– Newt, the comforting scent of citrus and cinnamon flooding his nose. He could smell the tail end of agitation, turning his scent the slightest bit sour, but as soon as he smelled it, it was gone, taken away on the breeze and replaced by overwhelming warmth.

They met in the middle, standing between the fence Newt had been leaning against and the front door of the med bay, just looking at each other. Taking the other in like they needed each other to breathe, to live.

Eventually, Newt cleared his throat.

“You’re alright?” He asked. Thomas nodded.

“Yeah, just some cuts and bruises, Clint said,” he breathed. He realized how close they were standing, not even a pace apart.

“Good,” Newt said. He punched Thomas in the arm, cinnamon surging in intensity.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?” Thomas exclaimed, stumbling backwards and grabbing his arm where Newt’s knuckles had just crashed into his skin.

“Never do that again. That was stupid and reckless, Thomas. You could’ve died,” Newt said, frowning. Thomas coughed, the horrible mixture of bitter lemon rind and pungent cinnamon rolling off Newt in waves.

“Okay! Okay, jeez, I won’t,” he relented, holding his hands out when Newt stepped towards him again. “Promise.”

Newt raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. “You promise? Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tommy.”

Pursing his lips, Thomas held out his pinky finger, a serious look set on his face. Newt raised an eyebrow, looking between Thomas’s face and hand.

“A pinky promise?” Newt said, disbelieving.

“They’re unbreakable, everyone knows that,” Thomas replied, fully serious.

Newt couldn’t help the laugh that huffed out from his mouth as he shook his head at Thomas’s antics. Nevertheless, he clasped his pinky around Thomas’s, sealing their deal.

“Alright shank, Council House, now,” Newt demanded, the smile on his lips softening the words on his tongue.

“Yessir,” Thomas grinned, turning to walk beside Newt as he began the walk to the Council House. Newt shoved his non-injured shoulder, making Thomas stumble slightly.

“I’m still pissed at you,” Newt grumbled. Thomas chuckled.

“Noted.” The energy in the Council House was stifling, a sharp difference from the warmth of the morning sun and Newt’s conversation in the Glade. Thomas stopped as soon as he walked through the doors, freezing beneath the weight of everyone’s stares.

“Come on down, shank,” Gally said, gesturing to the single chair at the front of the Council House. “You’re in the hot seat.”

Begrudgingly, Thomas walked down the steps and dropped into the chair, peering up at everyone as the Glade stared at him from their seats. Newt joined Gally on the floor as the last of the Gladers ran in, sliding into their seats.

“Things are changing,” Gally stated, instantly silencing the chatter of the Council House. The silence weighed on Thomas like a wet blanket. He couldn’t help but glance up at Newt where he stood in front of Thomas, leaning against a support beam, carefully keeping his gaze off of Thomas and on Gally, who stood in the middle of the pit. Thomas focused on the sweet smell of citrus and cinnamon, trying his best to ignore the writhing anxiety in his gut. 

“There’s no denying it,” Gally continued. “First Ben gets stung in broad daylight, and then Alby. And now our Greenie here has taken it upon himself to go into the Maze.” Gally swung his arm towards Thomas. “Which is a clear violation of our rules here.”

“Yeah, but he saved Alby’s life,” Frypan interrupted. Thomas perked up, making eye contact with Fry. Fry nodded at him, which made Thomas feel less like he was about to get banished.

“Did he?” Gally shot back, his tone scathing. “For three years, we have coexisted with these things, and now, you’ve killed one.” Gally turned to face Thomas, glaring at him. “Who knows what that could mean for us?”

Silence descended upon the Gladers, thick with anticipation. Newt was the first to break it, an unimpressed look on his face. “What do you suggest we do?”

“He has to be punished,” Gally answered, sparking an uproar throughout the Council House. Agitation bolted through Thomas, sharp and hot at Gally’s suggestion.

“Minho,” Newt’s voice cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter, silencing everyone once again. “You were in there with him, what do you think?”

Minho looked to the ground, processing his thoughts and arranging his response. “I think that in all the time we’ve been here, nobody has ever killed a Griever before.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. Thomas felt his heart start to slide into his gut, doubting the bond he’d formed with Minho in the Maze. After all, he did break the rules, and he’d only known the other for five days. Not really enough time to even call someone a friend yet. “When I turned tail and ran, this dumb shank stayed behind to help Alby. I don’t know if he’s brave, or just stupid, but whatever it is, we need more of it.”

Thomas shifted forwards in his seat, the Council House sitting on a razor’s edge, leaning forwards when Minho opened his mouth to speak again. “I say we make him a Runner.”

The Council House burst into chatter again, everyone shocked at Minho’s words. Thomas stared at Minho until the other finally looked back. He nodded, which Minho returned after only a moment of hesitation. Thomas smiled, small and real, at the almost-friend he’d managed to make.

“If you want to throw the Newbie a parade, go ahead!” Gally shouted over everyone. “But if I know one thing about the Maze, it’s that you do not-”

His rant was cut off by a low, booming horn accompanied by a deep rumble. It sounded like the Maze shifting at night, but it was too early for that, the sun too high in the sky, shining down into the council house through the slats in the roof. Newt pushed off his support beam, throwing a quick look at Gally before rushing out of the Council House. Thomas scrambled up from his chair, following the mass of Gladers that was flowing from the House, trying to ignore the horrible gut feeling that this was somehow his fault.

…oooOOOooo…

It was his fault. Well, not entirely, but at least partially. And now he sat in the Council House with only the Keepers, the rest of the Glade gone, shooed off to do their jobs. 

And Newt.

Newt was acting first in command with Alby down, and Gally wasn’t one to take no for an answer. 

Thomas threw another pebble at the side of the wall of the Slammer, watching how it kicked up dirt when it hit the wall, the dust particles floating down gently in the flickering firelight. Chuck had just left after graciously bringing Thomas food, saying that he’d run better on a full stomach. Thomas was elated that he’d finally get to officially explore the Maze tomorrow, but his excitement was dampened by his isolation from everyone else. 

Well, one person specifically. 

The last time Thomas had seen Newt was when he was getting led to the Slammer, one last glance back at Newt’s white knuckle grip on his machete strap and the clench of his jaw before he was hauled from the Council House and thrown into what was essentially jail. 

Thomas threw another pebble.

The Slammer smelled overwhelmingly of sweat, remnants of past Gladers’ nights heavy in the floor, packed into the dirt and flooding the place with a multitude of different scents all piling on top of one another until no single trail could be picked out from the profile. A note of rotting fruit skimmed over the top, Ben’s fault, most likely. Thomas scrambled over to the front gate, pressing his face between the bars and trying to breathe air that didn’t smell like death. The night air was cool and crisp, the remnants of dinner floating past Thomas’s nose as he breathed in the fresh air desperately, like a man starved. He closed his eyes, trying his best to ignore the smell of the Slammer behind him and clear his lungs with the Glade. 

“You alright?” Citrus and cinnamon slammed into Thomas like a bus, his eyes flying open and landing on blond hair bathed in gold from the torch flickering in the holder just outside the door. 

“Uh- yeah I- yeah. It uh, it reeks in there,” Thomas stuttered. Newt hummed, drooling into the grass just outside the gate, close enough that Thomas could touch him if he threaded his arms through the bars of the Slammer door. 

“Strong nose, you’ve got. Nobody else really complains about it,” Newt commented. 

“How many omegas are put in the Slammer,” Thomas grumbled, crossing his arms through the bars. Newt snorted. 

“True, most of them tend to stay out of trouble. Except for you, of course. And occasionally Winston, that shank.”

Thomas huffed out a laugh. “Lucky me, I guess.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking for trouble it’d have a harder time finding you,” Newt grinned. Thomas couldn’t stop the twitch of his own lips up, traitorous as they were. 

“It’s not my fault that trouble knows where I live and keeps knocking on my door.”

“True that. Maybe you need someone to protect you from trouble.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, gazing up at Newt’s cheeky grin and the teasing raise of his eyebrows.

“What, you volunteering?” 

Newt shrugged, feigning disinterest and glancing away, raising his gaze to the night sky and exposing the pale column of his throat. Thomas desperately wished they weren’t separated by wooden bars, yearning to touch, to taste. Newt smelled so good he couldn’t help but wonder what he would taste like, hot and real under his tongue. Not that he actually would if they weren’t separated, hands stopped by the crippling fear that he was doing something wrong, pushing boundaries that would snap and ignite, burning down every tentative bridge of trust they’d built in the past few days. 

“If you were, I wouldn’t be complaining,” Thomas felt the words come out of his mouth more than he heard them. He watched Newt freeze, and regret spilled cold over his skin. “I- sorry.”

Thomas pulled back, retreating into the Slammer’s depths, giving Newt space. He was immediately overwhelmed by the odor of the Slammer again, gagging and coughing as he surged forwards again, pressing his face between the bars and inhaling deeply, clearing his lungs with the smell of Newt.

“Does it really smell that bad in there?” Newt frowned, concern knitting his brow. Thomas coughed again, shaking his head and shrugging. 

“I’ll live, it’s just one night.”

“Are you gonna sleep standing up against the door then?” Newt raised one eyebrow. 

Thomas shrugged again. “If I have to.”

Newt’s face scrunched up in displeasure, his nose crinkling in the most adorable way that made Thomas almost forget about the stench and his night in jail. 

“Give me your hand,” Newt said. Thomas obliged, sparks shooting across his skin at his touch, Newt’s hand warm and calloused against Thomas’s palm. Slowly, tenderly, Newt worked his fingertips up Thomas’s forearm, until his wrist scent gland was hovering right over the matching one on Thomas’s wrist. Thomas felt his breath hitch, his lungs stuttering behind his ribs, eyes wide as he stared up at Newt. 

“Is this okay?” He whispered. Thomas could only nod, voice trapped beneath the weight of the words sitting in his mouth. When their skin touched it felt like warm honey, sweet and sticky and right as their scents mingled together, intertwining until it flooded Thomas’s nose, overwhelming him until he was high off of it, turning his brain into cotton soaked in devotion. His eyes were locked on Newt, whose lips were slightly parted as he stared at where he was scenting Thomas, his pupils blown and his cheeks tinged in pink. Thomas swallowed hard. Newt glanced up at him, and the moment their eyes locked, heat shot down Thomas’s spine, landing in the pit of his stomach as Newt slowly inched his hand up, dragging his scent across Thomas’s arm. He only broke contact when the bars of the door became in issue, his hand hovering, hesitating, at the entrance. 

Thomas swallowed again, watched Newt’s eyes track the movement. He slowly, deliberately tilted his head to the side, not dropping Newt’s gaze. He watched Newt shudder, his breath coming in uneven puffs. He watched as he carefully reached forward, ghosting his touch over Thomas’s mating bite. Thomas gasped at the contact, encouraging Newt. His skin felt like it was on fire, world endingly bright and sending sparks through his nerves, heat igniting beneath every point of contact between him and Newt. The universe stood before him, ignited in gold and infinitely more precious.

And it burned.

Newt consumed Thomas, inside and out, ripped through him until he was a husk of a man that begged only to be consumed again. Galaxies formed where Newt’s wrist slid against Thomas’s neck, leaving stars in its wake. 

Newt gently ran his fingers through Thomas’s hair, his nails gently scratching his scalp, sending shivers throughout his body. A choked off sound tore its way out of Thomas’s throat, somewhere between a whine and desperation, leaving his heart beating on the grass in front of him. He saw the way Newt froze in front of him and heat erupted across his face, embarrassment heavy on his skin. Thomas shut his mouth, his teeth clacking together with the force of it. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, afraid that if he spoke any louder he’d shatter the small bubble of tentative peace that had built around them. 

“‘S fine,” Newt slurred, voice just as quiet, like he felt the fine spun atmosphere around them too. He cleared his throat, slowly pulling away, like he was being forced to. Thomas held his breath as Newt retreated, fighting off the other noises that wanted to crawl out of his lungs. “I hope that helps with the stench. Goodnight, Tommy.”

It was at that moment that Thomas inhaled again, and was utterly demolished by the intense smell of citrus and cinnamon that had ingrained itself into his body. It intertwined with his own scent until he couldn’t smell anything else, drowning in the scent of his mate. Newt had scented him so he wouldn’t have to survive the night surrounded by the smell of BO and Grievers but had left him shaking, stripped down to his soul. 

Newt had scented him.

Well, scenting him was putting it lightly. It felt like Thomas had been drenched in it, doused like a candle in water. Or, a candle in gasoline, an explosion of heat coiling in the pit of Thomas’s stomach, contentment sinking deep into his bones and weighing his eyelids down until all he could do was slide down the Slammer wall and breathe it in, falling asleep to the scent of his mate.