Chapter Text
The Gladers were roaring with laughter, clinging to each other in a whirlwind of alcohol and sweat. It had been ages since they'd had a night like this—a real party, where the terror of the Maze faded beneath the shouts and the pounding music. Minho stood atop a table, glass raised high, bellowing nonsense that had everyone doubled over in hysterics. Newt was lost somewhere in the crowd, already way too drunk, and Thomas felt the buzz creeping into his skull, making the world tilt just a little.
He laughed, head thrown back, his glass half-spilled between his fingers.
"You're wasted, Newt."
Newt blinked, a sloppy grin stretching across his lips. He stumbled forward, catching himself on Thomas's shoulder. Too close. Way too close.
"And you? You can't even stand straight."
Thomas raised a finger to protest, but the ground swayed, and damn, maybe Newt was right. He straightened up, but Newt was still there, his breath hot against Thomas's skin.
The music shifted abruptly—something fast, aggressive, a beat that drilled into their heads. Bodies pressed together in the small crowd, and before Thomas could process it, Newt grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the fray.
"Come on, we're dancing, Tommy."
"You're serious?"
Newt burst out laughing.
"What, scared of me or something?"
It was a challenge. Damn it, he knew Thomas couldn't back down from that. So he gritted his teeth and let himself be pulled in.
They were close. Too close. Their bodies brushed, collided with the rhythm. Newt's hands settled on his hips, sliding a bit too low, a bit too slow. A shiver shot through Thomas, but he didn't move, didn't pull away. He locked eyes with Newt.
"What are you after here?"
Newt smiled. A dangerous smile.
"You think I even know what I'm doing anymore?"
His fingers tightened on Thomas, pulling him closer. Now there was no space left. Just heat, alcohol, and the music throbbing in their veins.
Thomas could leave. He should.
But he didn't move.
Newt leaned in, close enough for their breaths to mingle. His lips nearly grazed Thomas's jaw. Thomas shut his eyes for a second, just one, before forcing them open.
"Damn it, Newt..."
"What?"
A hoarse whisper, a smirk, and Thomas felt like he was about to snap.
He could kiss him. He knew it. He also knew that if he did, there'd be no going back.
But Newt didn't move. He waited. He played.
And Thomas hated losing.