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“Just find the rope, idiot.”
“I’m trying,” Thomas hissed back, squinting at the rows of rusted hooks and shelves. His fingers skimmed over dusty boxes as he pushed past them, searching uselessly. A heavy puff of old dust erupted into the stale air as he stumbled, making him cough.
“Dude, when was the last time you cleaned this place?” he groaned, eyes watering. The storage cupboard they were crammed into was a mess — crates littered every surface and dust covered each shelf.
“We never did,” Newt replied with a chuckle, “s’just some cupboard we decided to use as a dumping ground for things we didn’t need yet.”
Thomas gave an annoyed grunt. “If this mess is your fault, why not help me out a little?”
“You seem to be doin’ just fine.”
He groped at another shelf, fingers creeping into the opening of what felt like an unused crate. There were a few useless supplies inside; he retracted after just a few seconds of checking and moved on to the next.
“Why does Minho need rope anyway?”
“Didn’t he tell you? You were together all day.”
“I assumed he told you.”
“He never tells me anything,” Newt scoffed, the roll of his eyes almost audible.
Thomas finally snagged the rope, which was wedged between two heavy crates, and yanked it out. It was a frayed, dusty thing. He wrinkled his nose. He hadn’t known ropes could be disappointments.
“You got it?” Newt asked.
“Yep.” He turned, ready to hand it over, but was cut off by the sudden, deafening thud of the closet’s wooden door slamming shut, darkness blotting out the weak light of the setting sun.
He blinked. Breathed in the stale air.
Blinked again, trying to clear his vision. But the room was pitch-black.
“Hey Minho, did you—”
Click.
A beat of silence.
“Minho?” Thomas experimented, his voice rising.
He struck the door; once, twice, with his arm and then his knee. Then he launched himself against the wood, pain spiking in his side. Newt grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” he scolded.
“Minho!” Thomas cried, pulling from Newt’s grasp and hitting a wall, “Minho, this isn’t funny!”
Laughter. Thomas’s blood started to boil.
“Enjoy the quality time, you two! I’ll be back at dawn!” more laughter followed, slowly receding.
Silence settled in, thick and heavy.
"Unbelievable," Thomas sighed, pushing against the door a final time. It didn't budge. "He’s dead. He is absolutely dead when we get out of here."
He waited for Newt to offer a quip, or at least a groan of frustration. When the silence stretched, Thomas turned slightly, his arm bumping Newt’s again. "You okay?”
“Fine,” Newt groaned. Their shoulders bumped and Thomas shifted, trying to find room. He stumbled into a wall instead, back striking the wood. Blindly, he reached out once more and hit a shelf, then Newt, then the door.
“Bloody hell, stop moving!” Newt hissed, feet scuffing the floor.
“This place is small,” Thomas commented.
“Nice deduction.”
“Shut up.”
Slowly, shapes started to take form. Thomas made out newt’s silhouette framed by the weak light creeping in through the slots of colour in the wooden walls, then made a quick mental map of the tiny space. It was barely a metre wide , and most of the ground was littered with crates and buckets. The shelves looked worryingly unsteady. Heavy boxes jutted outward in uneven spots.
Newt didn’t seem to notice or care. He leaned against a wall, picking at his fingers with a blank look, expression devoid of even annoyance.
“Are you not mad?” Thomas asked, dropping to the ground and trying to make his body as small as possible by looping his arms round his bent knees.
“I’m silently plotting revenge,” Newt replied with half a smile. He sank down next to Thomas, their feet hitting despite the both of them curling into themselves.
“Nice,” was all Thomas could manage.
“Do you really think he’s going to leave us here all night?” Newt asked.
Thomas thought about it. He pressed his elbows into the walls and winced at the splinters in his skin. Even for Minho, that would be cruel.
“I sure hope not,” Thomas finally replied, his throat beginning to feel dry.
Newt just hummed, eyes flickering away from Thomas’s face and back to the walls.
They sat in awkward silence for a long moment. Newt’s eyes kept darting around the inside of the closet, the blank expression now replaced by a look of immense irritation. Thomas kept his gaze on the floor. He traced the wood grains with a finger, boredom and dread beginning to creep in. The more he thought about it, the more the small room felt jarringly similar to the box. He shivered at the memory.
The cupboard trembled.
Thomas opened his eyes, turning toward Newt who was bouncing his foot and staring into space.
“You good?”
“fine.” Newt gave him a sharp look that quickly silenced him. Thomas looked away, focusing on the ground and trying to tell the time by peeking out the cracks in the wood. It seemed to be growing dimmer outside. Minho wouldn’t actually leave them here for the night right?
Newt’s foot kept bouncing harder as the time passed, until it was rapping audibly against the wood in a frenzied mess. A look of pained frustration darkened his features, and his eyes kept darting around like he was about to snap.
Thomas frowned, peering closer. The only time he’d seen Newt like this was the night MInho and Alby disappeared into the maze. Then he noticed the weak tremor in Newt’s hands, which were clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. Newt was breathing too fast—short, shallow breaths that he was trying to mask by holding and releasing slowly.
“Hey, seriously,” Thomas said, concerned, “you alright?” He reached out, fingers brushing Newt’s skin for a second before his friend flinched and pulled back instinctively, coiling into himself like a spring.
Worry curdled in Thonmas’s stomach, thick and sour.
“Talk to me,” he murmured softly, “what’s wrong? Are you—” he looked around the cupboard, “—claustrophobic?”
Newt scoffed, looking away. No reply. He stopped rapping his leg but dug his fingers into his skin, turning his arm pink. Then he dragged his nails over and over the patch rhythmically, like he was trying to draw blood.
“Stop that!” Thomas cried, hitting Newt’s arm.
Newt threw his arms up in exasperation, but they only struck the wooden walls, making the closet shake and him cry out in pain.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore skin and scowling at the door.
Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he banged on the metal hinges, rattling the door frame and the entire cupboard with it. Several buckets shifted. The walls creaked, making Thomas’s stomach twist.
“Minho! Let us out, you bloody shuck-face!” he cried, voice strained. He brought his fists down on the splintered wood until the skin was raw and angry, but no one came. Worry pooled in Thomas’s stomach; he reached up and yanked Newt away from the door, dragging him back to eye level.
“He’s not coming,” he said firmly, “we just have to wait.”
“For how long, exactly?” Newt snapped. His breaths were shallow and uneven, cutting into his words like sharp hitches on a road, “he’s gonna leave us here all night!”
“No, he’s not. I’m sure of it.” Thomas wasn’t sure of it.
“I—” Newt cut himself off, a clarity sharpening in his eyes. His shoulders slumped and he turned from Thomas, gazing back at the ground. A look of guilt and shame flickered across his features in the shadows, quickly replaced by the blank stare.
He fell back into a crouch, slumping against the wall. Thomas curled up next to him, studying his friend’s glazed eyes.
“It’s gettin’ hard to breathe in here, isn’t it?” Newt finally said after a few moments of silence.
Thomas inhaled. The air was stuffy, but it wasn’t suffocating. And yet Newt’s breathing was light and airy, like he was running out of oxygen.
“It’s just in your head,” he replied, trying to be consoling and failing.
Newt blew out a breath. “Maybe. Never really did well with small spaces after the box.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Newt scoffed with an eyeroll. He started bouncing his leg again, a look of irritated concentration on his face.
“Do you… want a distraction?”
Newt smirked at him, raising an eyebrow.
“What, you gonna kiss me or something, Tommy?”
“If that helps.”
“I never said it would,” Newt scoffed, sounding mildly flustered.
“You never said otherwise.”
“Yeah, well, that’s obviously because—” Thomas pressed a finger to Newt’s lips, silencing him.
His gaze flickered down to Newt’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. For a second, the world hung suspended in the darkness, the air trembling. A hot, shallow breath feathered against Thomas’s face. Then, bringing his hand from Newt’s lips to his cheek, he leaned in.
It was messy — he couldn’t see much in the darkness — but he caught Newt’s lips against his own, his wet ones meeting the older boy’s chapped, dry ones in a quick, breathless clash. Beneath him, Newt was stiff, his hands frozen midair, his chest motionless. He made no effort to kiss back, but didn’t shove him off either.
Thomas pulled away in less than a second, the taste of Newt’s lips still lingering like a ghost against his own. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, fluttering like a terrified bird.
“Did you just—” Newt stopped short, running his tongue over his lips and crinkling his nose. His chest hitched, but Thomas couldn’t be sure if it was to do with fear or something else.
He’d just kissed Newt without asking.
“I-I’m sorry,” he said slowly, “I was just trying to—”
Newt shook his head, furrowing his brow not in a bad way. For a moment, he seemed to be lost in thought, his fists coming to rest on his knees limply.
“Do it again,” he finally said, after a prolonged beat of silence.
“What?” Thomas froze, his mind stalling completely.
“You heard me. Do it again.”
“Uh-are you sure?”
“Chances are, he’s gonna leave us here all night.” Newt leaned in closer, their faces barely an inch apart. Thomas could feel his friend’s hot breaths on his cheeks, sending goosebumps up his neck and arms, “I might need the distraction.”
Heat was rising in Thomas’s cheeks. He didn’t make an effort to hide the hitch in his chest or the widening of his eyes — instead he focused all his attention on Newt — Newt, whose fingers were now creeping closer to Thomas’s, whose eyes were half glazed with fear, whose blonde hair seemed silver beneath the cloak of darkness.
Thomas didn’t know who leaned in first.
Maybe it started simultaneously, a united decision tangled in their brain wiring.
Even less did he know when it would end, if it ever would, and whether a part of him would have liked that.
It was far less forced than the first kiss. In fact, it felt incredibly, unnaturally natural. Thomas had never thought of himself as a kisser, and no more so someone who lusted for touch or relationships. But there was a part buried deep within him that clawed its way out when Newt’s hands were on him; an instinct he didn’t know he had taken over.
He chased Newt’s warmth, desperate for the solidity of him, for the feel of his skin and the smell of his clothes. A blind impulse drove his hands upward. His fingers threaded through the tangles of Newt’s messy hair, the tips of them tingling against the heat of his scalp. It was sweaty and tousled, but he couldn’t care any less.
Adrenaline and electricity coursed through his system. Sharp fear and deep hunger twisted in his stomach, making his chest hitch again.
Everything felt unreal. Like a fever dream.
And yet through it all, Newt remained. His touch feathered across Thomas’s skin, grounding but fleeting, fingers never finding a right place. Then a hand flew up and clutched at Thomas’s shirt, fist bunching up the fabric. He yanked Thomas closer, back arching, fingers a death grip on his collar.
A low noise came from Newt’s throat, quiet but audible.
Thomas deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against Newt’s. A seed of fear darted in his heart — was Newt okay with this? — but he snatched a look through half-lidded eyes and saw no distaste in the other boy’s features.
It no longer felt like just a kiss.
They broke apart, the tension splintering like dry wood, both gasping for air, their foreheads resting against each other’s. Newt’s chest was heaving, his breaths laboured and deep, but not like before. A glossiness coated his eyes, clarity dulled out like a drunkard’s. They were both high on each other — Thomas’s heart was doing a mad, erratic dance in his chest, and fireworks were exploding in his thoughts.
“Did it work?” Thomas whispered, voice rough, his lips brushing Newt’s with every parting.
“Shut up,” Newt breathed.
And then he kissed Thomas again.
Again. Thomas didn’t have time to freeze, even though every cell of his body was tingling, electrified. There was no hesitation this time, and the hunger in the way Newt kissed him startled Thomas, his body going limp, falling backward until his head hit the shelves, making several buckets and chains rattle. It was messy , a blurry tangle of colours, hands and teeth.
A hand on his chest. Fingers pressed to his heart. Feeling his quickening pulse, counting seconds.
Thomas gripped Newt’s waist, pulling him flush against his skin.
The darkness heightened everything. It amplified every touch, every sound, every brush of wet lips, every heartbeat. The rustle of clothes, the hitch of breaths, the rushing of blood in his head — all seemed deafening. Thomas forgot about the glade. Forgot about the maze. Forgot that there was a world out there demanding more than he could give; forgot everything outside the threshold of Newt’s arms.
Forgot about the prank.
About Minho.
Forgot that there was a chance they wouldn’t be trapped in a dark closet for an entire night. That anytime — anytime — Minho could open that door.
The click broke his brief dissociation.
Light.
Minho’s voice filled everything. “Alright, I decided to be nice, and—”
Newt and Thomas froze, their lips still connected, eyes darting to the opening door for one second before jerking backward. Thomas scrambled to the opposite wall of the cupboard, his legs tangling in Newt’s, his hands slamming against the wood. He looked at Newt, taking in his swollen lips, his dishevelled hair, his rumpled and twisted clothes, and felt his stomach plummet.
Shuck it. Shuck it all.
Minho froze, eyes flickering between Thomas and Newt, slowly processing. The grin on his face melted into a gape, and the crinkle of his eyes vanished. Thomas’s brain fused, flickering and faltering for seconds before giving out like a wasted lightbulb. He couldn’t meet Newt’s eyes. Couldn’t meet Minho’s. But there was nowhere else to look.
“I—we—” Newt started, before his voice gave out into nothing.
“You two…” Minho started, his eyes glazing over, “kissed. You guys kissed.”
“Well, it was just to—”
Thomas was cut off by a snort from Minho, which quickly bubbled into a cackle. He threw his head to the sky, chest shaking with laughter. He laughed so hard he stumbled backward, doubling over his chest, his fingers in fabric, clawing at skin.
Heat blossomed across Thomas’s face. The urge to sprint into the maze was overpowering, regardless of the grievers’ promise of imminent death. But the maze doors had already closed.
“We were just—” Thomas' voice died once more. He cleared his throat, but couldn’t continue.
“Just what?” Minho choked out, wheezing, "practicing CPR? Is that what you call it? Because from where I was standing, it looked like Newt was doing a great job of clearing your airways, Tommy!” His voice cracked and he collapsed against the doorframe, body wracked by silent laughter.
“Shut up,” Newt groaned, rubbing a hand over his flushed face.
Minho could not shut up. He stumbled backward again, eyes sweeping over the two boys, getting crushed by a new wave of mad giggles at their state.
“I leave you alone for 5 minutes!” he cried through wheezy breaths, “and you— you just had to—” he burst out into another fit of laughter.
“It was a distraction!” Thomas finally cried, face red.
“Of course it was,” Minho said with the roll of his eyes.
“It was!” Newt yelled, his ears adorably red, (Thomas noticed with dismay), “I was about to have a panic attack, and he— he—” He deflated, shoulders slumping, running his hand over his features.
Finally, he sighed.
“You’re never gonna let us forget this, are you?”
“Nope.”
Newt blew out a heavy breath, slumping against the cupboard wall.
“Just go.”
Minho cackled evilly. “Whatever you say, boss.” He spun around on one foot and skipped off, head in the air, hands tucked around his chest. Thomas watched, heart racing, as his friend’s silhouette vanished into the folds of the glade.
A beat of silence. It stretched for a few moments.
Then Thomas turned. His eyes locked on Newt’s dark ones, and he forced out a sheepish grin. Newt was a mess; his eyes were cloudy, his face red, lips kiss-swollen, hair dishevelled, clothes rumpled — but he smiled, a faltering thing, meeting Thomas’s gaze for the first time since they were locked in.
“I-I’m sorry,” Thomas finally said, “I was stupid. I could’ve done literally anything else, but I panicked and… It’s my fault. You can hate me if you want.”
He sighed, fingering the rope that started everything.
Newt’s smile softened, eyes crinkling. He edged closer to Thomas and took his hand from the rope, entwining their fingers. His palm was warm and Thomas’s sweaty, but neither paid much notice.
“It’s okay,” he finally whispered, the sincerity in his voice shattering all the anxiety in Thomas’s chest.
“Really? But I–”
Newt laughed and pressed a finger to Thomas’s lips, his touch gentle, “I’m not mad, just—”
Thomas hesitated, doubt creeping in.
“—do something for me, yeah?”
“Uh– anything,” Thomas stuttered, leaning closer. A hot breath grazed his lips.
“Close your eyes.”
Thomas obeyed. Newt’s fingers traced his features, his hand sliding from Thomas’s lip to his cheek before tangling in his hair. For the hundredth time that night, Thomas’s breath hitched , but it was the first time he was sure of what they were doing.
They kissed.