Work Text:
Newt doesn’t realize he’s falling behind until the room starts tilting.
It’s not dramatic, nor cinematic. No violins, no sudden blackout. It’s just the small, stupid detail of the professor’s voice blurring around the edges while the projector screen glows too bright.
He blinks.
The slide reads: Midterm Essay Proposal – Due Tonight, 11:59 PM.
Newt’s stomach drops.
Tonight.
He knew that.
He definitely knew that.
He remembers opening a document two days ago. He remembers typing a title. He remembers thinking, I’ll do it properly after lab.
He hasn’t done it properly.
Around him, the lecture hall buzzes softly. Pens scratch. Laptops click. Someone coughs.
The professor keeps talking.
Newt stares at the blank margin of his notebook and feels something heavy settle in his chest.
Not panic.
Not yet.
Just gravity.
They all spill out of the humanities building together.
"The Maze Runner" is technically what brought most of them together freshman year — a stupid board game that ended up being something they all found interesting — but now it’s just coincidence that they all ended up in the same general academic orbit.
Minho and Gally are arguing about something as usual.
“Babe, that is not how supply and demand works,” Minho says, shoving Gally lightly with his shoulder.
“It absolutely is,” Gally shoots back, already reaching for Minho’s hand despite himself.
Thomas is mid-rant about lab partners.
“They didn’t even label the samples, Newt. They just assumed I’d know which one was which.”
Newt hums. “Mm.”
Thomas glances at him immediately.
“You okay?”
Newt smiles.
He’s good at smiling.
“Yeah. Just hungry.”
Thomas studies him a second longer than necessary, then nods. “Fry’s making pasta tonight, right?”
Frypan is walking slightly ahead with Brenda and Teresa, animatedly describing some elaborate garlic-butter situation.
“Garlic confit,” Teresa corrects.
“It’s still garlic,” Brenda says. “You just made it sound fancy.”
They’re loud. They’re warm. They’re familiar.
Newt loves them so much it aches sometimes.
Which is why he doesn’t say, I forgot about the proposal.
Which is why he doesn’t say, I think I’m drowning.
He just tucks his hands into his jacket pockets and keeps walking.
The apartment smells like garlic and tomato and something toasted.
They’ve practically adopted it as their communal space. Technically it’s Minho and Gally’s, but everyone has a toothbrush in the bathroom and at least one hoodie draped over the couch.
Newt sits at the kitchen island while Frypan cooks, watching oil shimmer in the pan.
Thomas presses against his side absentmindedly, scrolling through something on his phone.
“You’re quiet,” Thomas murmurs.
Newt shrugs.
“Just tired.”
Thomas hums, then kisses the side of his head like it’s nothing.
It’s never nothing.
Newt feels the warmth of it sink straight into his ribs.
Gravity again.
He checks the time.
6:42 PM.
He could still do it.
It’s just a proposal. 500 words. Thesis statement, outline, sources.
He can do that in two hours. Three if he’s being careful.
He just needs to focus.
Dinner is loud.
Minho steals garlic bread from Gally’s plate. Gally retaliates by wrapping an arm around Minho’s waist and pulling him half into his lap.
Brenda talks about her psychology midterm like it’s a war story.
Teresa has already color-coded her next three weeks of deadlines.
Thomas keeps nudging Newt’s knee under the table.
Newt laughs at the right moments. He adds comments where appropriate. He nods when spoken to.
But the entire time, the clock on the oven ticks forward in his peripheral vision.
7:18 PM.
7:32 PM.
7:49 PM.
Gravity is getting heavier.
He should leave soon. Go back to his dorm. Start writing.
But Thomas looks happy.
Thomas always looks happiest when they’re all together like this — like the world narrowed down to a small kitchen and shared plates and inside jokes.
Newt doesn’t want to break that.
He doesn’t want to be the first one to say he has to go.
He doesn’t want to be the one who’s struggling.
By the time he’s back in his own dorm room, it’s 8:26 PM.
He sits on his bed.
Opens his laptop.
Clicks the document.
The screen glows white.
Title: Narratives of Memory in Postmodern Literature.
Underneath it:
Nothing.
Newt stares.
His brain feels… thick.
He knows what he wants to argue. He had ideas in class. Something about unreliable narrators. Something about how memory reshapes identity.
He knows this.
He does.
So why can’t he make the words come out?
He types a sentence.
Deletes it.
Types another.
Deletes that too.
His heartbeat starts to pick up.
It’s fine.
He has time.
9:03 PM.
He Googles an article. Skims it. The words blur.
He scrolls social media for “just a second.”
9:17 PM.
He hasn’t written anything.
There’s a buzzing in his ears now.
He presses his palms against his eyes.
“Just focus,” he mutters to himself.
He used to be good at this.
Back in sixth form, he was the one people asked for notes. The one teachers praised for being composed, thoughtful, steady.
Now he can’t even produce 500 words.
His throat tightens.
He checks the time again.
9:41 PM.
He does math automatically.
Two hours, eighteen minutes.
Plenty.
Plenty.
Why does it feel like he’s already failed?
His phone buzzes.
Thomas: You make it back okay?
Newt stares at the message.
His chest aches.
He types: Yeah. Just starting the proposal.
Thomas: You’ve got this. Want me to come over after I shower?
Newt hesitates.
He wants to say yes.
He wants Thomas here — warm and solid and grounding.
But he also doesn’t want Thomas watching him freeze up in real time.
I’ll be fine, he types. Focus on your lab report.
There’s a pause.
Then: Okay. Text me if you need me.
Newt sets the phone down like it’s fragile.
He looks back at the blank document.
10:02 PM.
The buzzing in his ears is louder now.
His thoughts are getting slippery.
What if I fail this?
What if I fail the class?
What if I lose my scholarship?
What if—
He pushes his chair back abruptly.
Stands up.
Paces.
The room feels too small.
He opens the window even though it’s cold.
Breathes.
In.
Out.
His heart is racing too fast.
This is stupid.
It’s just an essay proposal.
Why is his body acting like he’s being chased?
He grips the windowsill until his knuckles turn white.
10:19 PM.
He’s running out of time.
Gravity shifts into something sharper.
Something like panic.
The first tear surprises him.
It slides down before he even realizes he’s crying.
“Bloody hell,” he whispers, swiping at it angrily.
He sits back down.
Forces his fingers to the keyboard.
Types:
In postmodern literature, memory functions as both a narrative device and a destabilizing force—
He stops.
The sentence looks wrong.
Everything looks wrong.
His chest tightens like someone’s wrapped a belt around it and pulled.
He can’t get enough air.
He tries again.
Another sentence.
Another deletion.
10:37 PM.
He presses his hands flat against the desk and bows his head.
He feels small.
Small and stupid and completely out of his depth.
What if Thomas realizes he’s not as put-together as he seems?
What if everyone does?
Minho breezes through exams like they’re games. Teresa has spreadsheets for her spreadsheets. Gally pretends not to care but still gets solid grades.
Newt just—
He just floats.
Until gravity hits.
And then he falls.
His phone buzzes again.
Thomas: Hey. You alive?
Newt stares at the screen through blurry vision.
He types back: Yeah.
Thomas: Send me what you’ve got so far?
Newt’s stomach drops.
He locks the phone instead.
He can’t.
There’s nothing to send.
10:51 PM.
An hour and eight minutes.
His hands are shaking now.
The room feels like it’s closing in.
His heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
He presses a hand to his chest.
“Stop,” he whispers.
It doesn’t.
He stands up again, pacing faster this time.
He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin.
This isn’t normal.
This is ridiculous.
It’s just an assignment.
Why can’t he breathe?
There’s a knock on his door.
Sharp. Urgent.
Newt freezes.
Another knock.
“Newt?”
Thomas.
Of course.
Newt wipes at his face quickly, tries to steady his breathing.
“Yeah,” he calls, but his voice cracks.
The door opens anyway.
Thomas takes one look at him and everything in his expression shifts.
Not confusion.
Not annoyance.
Just immediate concern.
“Hey,” Thomas says softly.
Newt shakes his head instinctively.
“I’m fine.”
Thomas steps inside and closes the door.
“You’re not.”
Newt laughs weakly. “I’m being dramatic.”
“Newt.”
That tone.
Gentle. Firm.
Newt’s composure shatters.
“I can’t do it,” he blurts.
Thomas frowns. “Can’t do what?”
“The proposal. I—I’ve been sitting there for two hours and I can’t get the words right and it’s due in—” he glances at the clock. “—fifty-three minutes and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
His voice is shaking now.
“I used to be good at this, Tommy. I used to be able to just sit down and think and now I feel like my brain’s full of fog and I can’t—”
He sucks in a sharp breath.
It doesn’t go all the way in.
Thomas is in front of him in two seconds.
“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
Newt can’t.
“I’m screwing it up.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
Thomas cups his face gently, thumbs brushing under his eyes.
“You are not,” he repeats, steady and sure.
Newt’s vision tunnels slightly.
“I can’t breathe.”
Thomas nods once.
“Okay. That’s okay. We’re gonna fix that first.”
He guides Newt down onto the bed.
Kneels in front of him.
“Match me,” Thomas says. “In for four.”
He breathes in slowly.
Newt tries to follow.
It’s shaky.
“Hold.”
“Out.”
Again.
And again.
Thomas keeps his hands warm on either side of Newt’s neck.
Keeps eye contact steady.
Keeps his voice low and calm.
The world slowly, slowly starts to tilt back into place.
Newt’s heartbeat eases.
The buzzing fades.
Tears keep slipping out, but softer now.
“I’m sorry,” Newt whispers.
“For what?”
“For being like this.”
Thomas’s eyebrows knit together.
“Like what?”
“A mess.”
Thomas exhales gently.
“You are not a mess.”
He leans forward and presses his forehead against Newt’s.
“You’re overwhelmed. That’s not the same thing.”
Newt closes his eyes.
Gravity shifts again.
Not crushing.
Just… grounding.
“I don’t want you to think I’m stupid,” he admits quietly.
Thomas pulls back just enough to look at him properly.
“Newt.”
He says his name like it’s important.
“You’re the smartest person I know.”
Newt snorts faintly.
“I can’t even write 500 words.”
“Because your brain decided to go into fight-or-flight over a deadline. That doesn’t erase your intelligence.”
Newt swallows.
Thomas brushes his thumbs under Newt’s eyes again.
“Let me see what you have.”
Newt hesitates.
Then nods weakly.
They move to the desk together.
Thomas reads the half-finished sentence.
“That’s good,” he says immediately.
Newt blinks. “It’s barely anything.”
“It’s a strong start.”
Thomas turns to him.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna sit right here. You’re gonna talk it out instead of typing. Just tell me what you want to argue.”
Newt stares at him.
“That’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s—”
“Newt.”
Thomas reaches for his hand.
Squeezes.
“Just talk.”
Newt hesitates.
Then, haltingly, he starts explaining his idea.
About memory as construction.
About identity.
About narrative instability.
As he talks, Thomas nods, asks small questions, keeps him moving forward.
And slowly—
The fog lifts.
The words start connecting again.
Thomas nudges the laptop closer.
“Okay. Now type that.”
Newt does.
The sentence comes easier this time.
Not perfect.
But present.
Thomas stays beside him the whole time.
Doesn’t hover.
Doesn’t judge.
Just… stays.
At 11:46 PM, Newt attaches the document and hits submit.
The confirmation screen pops up.
He stares at it like it might disappear.
Thomas grins.
“You did it.”
Newt’s shoulders sag.
Relief floods him so suddenly it almost makes him dizzy.
Thomas wraps his arms around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder.
“Told you,” he murmurs.
Newt leans back into him fully.
Gravity again.
But this time it feels like being held down gently instead of dragged under.
“I hate that it gets like that,” Newt admits quietly.
Thomas hums against his hair.
“Then we’ll deal with it together when it does.”
Newt closes his eyes.
Outside, the campus is quiet.
Somewhere across town, Minho is probably still teasing Gally. Brenda is probably overanalyzing something harmless. Teresa is updating her planner. Frypan is experimenting with midnight snacks.
The world is still spinning.
Newt just needed something to anchor him.
Thomas presses a soft kiss behind his ear.
“You don’t have to hold everything by yourself,” he whispers.
Newt exhales.
Maybe he doesn’t.
Maybe gravity isn’t always about falling.
Maybe sometimes it’s about being pulled toward something steady.
He laces his fingers with Thomas’s.
And this time, when the weight settles in his chest, it feels like love.