Archive of Our Own

Breathing in grass, he faintly registers the laughing.

The air is humid and constricting, and his chest is heaving. He needs to get away, but he does not know how to. There is a large blank in his mind. His muscles are sore, and his legs tied in a boneless mess. That he managed to get that far is a mystery by itself—he knows he can't make it another few yards.

He has to, though. The laughing is humiliating. It burns its way into his head and breaks free tears of frustration. He needs to run. He needs to get out.

But then a hand is offered, and his train of thoughts stop.

"Where...?" he starts. His throat is raw.

The hand simply pulls him up into a sitting position and pats his back. There is no mistaking that the person in front of him is strong, but at least he takes pity on him and sits down next to him.

Alby, the boy introduces himself.

In the next few hours, Alby teaches him of the Glade. He learns that he does not remember anything before the moment that he ran and fell, but that it is somehow an affliction that all of them share. That it's normal. Despite that, the men in the Glade—and they're all boys, he notices; his impaired memory does take note of there being girls nor adults—regard him with pity or a scowl. He hasn't done anything but run, but they have an opinion.

Maybe it is because he ran.

The constricting band around his chest that makes him unable to breathe tightens every time someone calls him Greenie.

He learns that the community of the Glade is surrounded by walls of solid concrete. Nobody has to tell him that; they rise dominantly around the glen and the encircling woods. There is one massive door that opens to a forbidden place and traps them at night. The gate continues to draw him in, but standing there makes him feel like an insignificant bug on the walls of something much larger.

They are not supposed to leave, Gally clarifies with a shove. Forced to learn fast, he drills the names of the others into his head; Gally is at the top of his list because he is downright hostile.

Newt is the scrawny boy who looks like he is reaching out. With him, his pity comes closer to empathy. Newt could be a friend.

Alby, the lawful leader who tries to keep it all together.

Minho.

Minho is on the list because he does not know what to make of him. Minho does not give him pity or aggresion. He looks at him, keeps his expression under control, and focuses on something else. It's almost like he either can't see him or simply has no opinion.

It confuses him.

It's Gally who at last gives him the most important name of all.

Thomas.

Admittedly, it takes a blow to the head to get his name back, and Thomas makes a note to get Gally back for this, but that can't suppress the sheer euphoria that comes with claiming back some of his humanity. He is no longer anonymous. If people continue calling him Greenie, it's not because they have no alternative to go with. Thomas feels a bit more whole again.

And when Newt calls him by that name later that night, intoxicated with that godawful draft from the glass jar, it sounds almost endearing.

"Come, Greenie," he laughs. "It's time you learn our most important tradition."

Just like that, people finally talk to him.

"Tell me again why this is a good idea."

"Because," explains Chuck simply, like that should be enough. Chuck is rosy-cheeked and bubbling with joy. He is obviously looking forward to the thing like it's the highlight of the week—whatever that is. Almost half of the Glade population are seated around a bottle in the middle, most of them in various states of inebriation. "Look, it's really easy," he adds when he notices Thomas not sharing his excitement. "Win, and you're the champion. You get to sleep on a mattress for a month. And you get privacy." For illustration, he points to a few hammocks grouped together under a roof that Thomas saw earlier. "Trust me, after sleeping like everyone else, you will want that bed after the month is over. You have no idea how badly some of us snore."

"Speak for yourself," calls someone from the other side of the circle.

"Anyway," Chuck rattles on with a grin, "The game is also really fun."

"You can only claim the title once a month though," Newt explains from his right. He points up to the moon, which is full and bright tonight. Thomas takes interest in the stars. He doesn't remember them ever having been that bright. He feels like he shouldn't remember them at all—or that he should pay attention to them instead of the game he is being dragged into. "And claiming it is not easy."

"So how do you win?" Not that Thomas is interested in winning. He is still numb from the onslaught of impressions that day, and he is close to a headache from all the input. He'd much rather get some rest. Whether that's in a hammock or a bed does not matter to him very much at that point.

At his words, a rumour of chuckles and near-giggles pulses through the group. Minho, sitting against a tree stump nearby but still watching as they play, shakes his head, and Thomas wonders if he thinks the game is immature. Thomas is beginning to fear that it is.

"You make sure you last," says Alby. "When you're challenged, you don't pass. When you are the challenger, you don't chicken out."

"Yes, but—" Thomas groans at the intentional vagueness. He feels like he has to prove himself all over again, and snaps his mouth shut. "Fine. You know what, I'm in. Play."

Hoots and cheers rise around him. Unexpectedly, Thomas feels his cheeks heat up. He wonders again how much it's worth it to him to blend in with the others in the Glade. He certainly does not plan to stick around indefinitely, but he also does not like to go back to the mocking stares of that afternoon. The Glade seems like a decent place. That doesn't mean Thomas is okay with how Gally and some of the others still intimidate him, and the noises coming from the Maze tell him that just accepting the situation might prove to be a dangerous choice.

At least they are kind enough not to let him start.

Ben, the Runner Thomas remembers from coming out of the Maze that afternoon, takes the first turn. He keeps his eyes on Thomas and dramatically gives the brown bottle a spin. The surface glints in the flicker of the fire. By itself, it is a harmless action, but everyone holds his breath and Thomas oddly feels time slow down around him.

Ben quirks a brow when the bottle stops spinning, and turns to the boy who is his designated opponent for this round.

"Pass!" Chuck flushes and shouts at once.

Newt leans over Thomas and ruffles his hair, his eyes merry and his laughter warm. "Good choice. You're way too young to be playing this game."

"I have just as much right to sleep in a decent bed," objects Chuck. "The rules of the game are not my fault."

It strikes Thomas only now that those who do not play the game—circling the group around the bottle like an arena of spectators—are either barely older than ten or too drunk or sleepy. And there is only one who doesn't play because he is not interested.

Just what did he get himself into?

The bottle passes to the boy next to Ben, and he takes a slow spin. The man on the opposite of the bottle when it stops spinning jolts, takes a long look at his opponent, and bails out as well.

This happens a few times. The group of participants keeps getting smaller and smaller, with Thomas still failing to grasp as to what it is that he is supposed to do. It must not be very nice, he thinks. Everyone seems to hope they don't get picked. They groan and moan when they do, and without fail they all pass up on the challenge. It's an elimination game that favours the ones who have the first turns, and heavily diminishes the chance of making it out as an opponent. In fact, the general strategy seems to be ducking away when the bottle stops somewhere in the middle between two people.

They are all trying to make it to the end without having been in play at all. It's a freaking Russian roulette, he realises, played with a bottle and downplayed by boisterous cheers for the losers by those in and out of the game alike.

And then the bottle suddenly points at him.

Newt grins and leans forward. He is already close, having been sitting next to him, but now he is practically invading Thomas's private space.

"What is it, Greenie? You yield?"

The frustration of still not understanding the game is getting to Thomas. "What happens if I don't?" he bites back. He knows he has to at least show more spine until he knows what it is he is passing for. Thomas is new in the Glade, and they are probably waiting to see what he is made of.

Everyone's eyes trained on him are not really helping his confidence though.

Newt shrugs like it's no big deal. "I kiss you."

Thomas gapes.

"Don't worry. It's not as bad as it sounds."

Newt is bluffing. Thomas can see that he is. Newt pretends to be calm, but he has been drinking from the draft all evening and enough of it to numb himself; his eyes can't focus. To the boy, the game must be a bigger deal than he lets on.

Meanwhile, a weight settles in Thomas's back. Chuck is trying and failing to shove Thomas forward. "Come on," he groans, "kiss him already."

Thomas looks a last time at Newt. Is this what they want? To see him kiss a practical stranger, for the sake of a comfortable bed when he doesn't even know the alternative? Contrary to the other players, he realises that the act itself does not particularly scare him. Pecking a boy on the lips does not sound like a big deal to Thomas—but their opinion of him does.

Newt leans forward until their noses nearly touch.

Thomas flails and passes so fast that he stumbles over his words and falls backward.

The circle bursts into laughter. Chuck pats Newt on the shoulder sympathetically. "Nothing personal."

"I won," Newt defends his pride and his victory. He straightens himself. Both he and Thomas are red in the face, but Newt has played the game many more times than Thomas has, and he recovers faster.

The turn passes to a boy named Frypan next to him.

Nobody ends up kissing anybody that night. So it is just that; a game of bluff, meant to embarrass every one of them indiscriminately for the sake of a good laugh and to have something to look forward to every month. Newt is up against Winston in the final round. He wins using the same tactic he used on Thomas.

Lying in the grass instead of the hammock and looking up at the moon and the stars that night, Thomas somehow thinks that Newt is the only one who plays for something else than the bed.

It makes him sad. For a moment, at least, until he stops to consider that it might very well be a scare tactic. In the one day he has been here, Thomas has already figured out that Newt is one of the most intelligent people in the Glade, and that his role of farmer is wasted on him.

Thomas sighs. His head turns to look at the towering walls. Something unnatural screeches and scratches in the distance. Another sound haunts him from the other side. Even the hooting owl in the forest raises the hairs on his neck.

Maybe Gally is right. At least if they stick to the Glade, they are safe.

It's just that Thomas can't get himself to accept that.

The doors close with a sound of finality. The sound as they seal and hermetically remove him from the Glade scrapes and reverberates for seconds, the concrete still warm to the touch and the air warm in a way that is different from the humidity between the trees on the other side.

For a second, Thomas is amazed to still be alive.

"Congratulations," Minho helps him out of his reverie. "You just killed yourself."

The smile slips from his face.

The Maze.

Oh. Right.

Thomas decides that he's not ready to cope with the consequences and specifically the face Minho makes at him, and focuses his attention on Alby. He lies still enough that he could be dead, but he is breathing. Poorly. Having stood eye in eye with Ben that morning, Thomas is not ready for this.

Certainly not in here.

"How long," he wants to know, "before he's like, uh..."

"Before he's like Ben?" Minho is definitely not pleased. His eyes keep skitting around. "A day? Maybe less? Ben was fine last time I saw him. Look, can we discuss this when we're not sitting ducks?"

"We can't leave him."

"We have to go. Now."

"Fine." Thomas crouches and starts hoisting Alby up. He doesn't know why he wants to. If Alby got stung, he is going to change, and he is probably going to be a big problem. Alby has been kind to Thomas though. He's still human. And Thomas feels like he owes him.

"What are you doing?" Minho hisses. He is ready to run. "We can't—"

Thomas looks at him. "We have to hide him."

"I'm not getting into a discussion with you. Not here."

Minho must be used to ordering people around. He talks with a sense of command, which Thomas belatedly reasons is probably because that would make sense for the Keeper of the Runners. Nevertheless the eerie sound of metal scrambling against concrete moves him under Alby's other shoulder, back into action.

From that moment on, they don't stop. They barely find a place to keep Alby away from the predators of the Maze before one of them finds them. Spidery legs tick, tick, tick, in an ever increasing pace, until a dark shape is running straight at them. It hurls itself around corners without a care for injury, its glowing red eyes monstrous and murderous.

When Thomas catches a glimpse of what it really looks like, all oozing flesh and raw metal limbs, a guttural whimper escapes the back of his throat.

"Thomas!" Minho shouts. A hand snatches his arm and yanks him back around the corner. Minho is panting. "You want to make it out alive, shank? Don't look at it. Keep moving."

That is easier said than done. Minho has been running all day and is at the end of his reserves, and Thomas is not used to the pace. They can not hope to outrun the tireless chase of a creature built for the hunt. It helps that Minho knows the Maze by heart, which saves them on several close encounters, but Thomas can not continue much longer.

Minho keeps looking at a specific pass. "I know a way," he pants suddenly with a weary smile. "The Maze, it's going to change. Do you hear that? If we make it there..." He nudges to a dead end. The walls are starting to shift. "Now."

Thomas is tired though. He is becoming increasingly frustrated with the thing that is chasing them. Nobody knows what it is. Newt told him they are called Grievers, and that he wouldn't want to run into one. That is all everyone can tell him. Grievers are bad.

Nobody can tell him why there is a maze with these things surrounding the Glade—which is, although nobody wants to say it, effectively a prison with a few trees and a campfire—or why Minho still goes out into it during the day with only one extra Runner if it is so dangerous.

To be fair, Minho knows what he is doing. Thomas does decidedly not.

He stops in the middle of the crossroads and turns. In the distance, the grey shape of the Griever catches sight of him. It cries in a way that chills him to the bone, but he does not move.

"Thomas!" Minho tries urgently to push him into action from where he stands. Where he is safe. "What the— What are you doing?"

Thomas looks at him, his eyes wide. He wants to tell Minho to trust him, to have faith. What comes out instead is a faint, "I don't know."

Minho's eyes grow wide, and when Thomas turns he sees it. Really sees it. The thing is as high as a small building. It crawls the walls of the Maze with ease, its sharp feet digging into crumbling concrete. The Maze is no match for it. Why hasn't it crawled over those walls and into the Glade?

Then it comes at him, and Thomas truly, genuinely, runs.

The Griever is close now. Air shifts yards behind him, then feet, and then something slimy and cool drops on his shoulder. Thomas runs like his life depends on it. His throat is burning. The pass has constricted to a narrow corridor, like the one he escaped when he ran into the Maze. It would be just his luck to make it once and not a second time.

Then Minho grasps his hand and pulls him into safety.

Flesh and metal are mauled into a pulp behind him.

It takes a moment before the world stops spinning. At least Minho is equally speechless. "You—" He looks from Thomas to the remains of the Griever and back. "You stupid—"

"Is it dead?" Thomas gasps.

"Yes, it's dead! What got into you? That could have killed you!"

Thomas laughs, all breath and panting. He laughs because if he does not, he will crumble. "Except it didn't."

"You are one crazy shank," Minho shakes his head.

Thomas stumbles to the ground and stretches, still heaving but slowly catching his breath. He looks over at the remains of the Griever. Part of him screams internally, the words suspiciously similar to what Minho has just been telling him. Thomas smiles though, groans and closes his eyes. It is over. "You're welcome."

And then Minho is laughing too, incredulous at first, but gradually relief gains the upper hand. Then, it's simply to vent off the frustration of the night. His hands are shaking when he looks at them. "I hate you."

Thomas's mouth involuntarily tugs into a broad smile. Minho, indifferent Minho, is cursing him through a whole spectrum of emotions. "Yeah, whatever."

Being assigned to explore the Maze means that Thomas stops being a nuisance to Newt. Newt mentions this after the first day of his new duty as a Runner. "But that's probably because you're tired. Still. A good thing."

"Thanks," Thomas responds dryly. He is adjusting to life in the Glade—not that he has anything to forget about his past life, because the ones who put them here through a box in the ground that is permanently around to remind him that this has not always been his life, well, they made pretty sure of that. "You're a real friend, Newt."

"I'm just saying. I bet Minho doesn't let you slack off like you did before."

"I did not slack off."

"All the time."

Thomas pretends he did not hear that. "Shank," he mutters under his breath.

"Hah! I see you're quick on the uptake." Newt is lounging on his bed, and he is not letting anyone else on it. Sitting against it is fine however, which means that his exclamation comes from over Thomas's head.

Thomas shrugs in reply. It's kind of hard not to pick up on the Glader slang, not when you're running with Minho. When they are in the Maze, his fellow Runner is remarkably easy with that word. In fact, it probably makes up for fifty percent of the things he actually says.

"How's Alby?" he belatedly wonders.

Newt rolls over shamelessly. "Getting treated as we speak. Alby is strong. We think he is going to make it. So, the Maze. Tell me what it's like."

And Thomas tells him of the pillars of stone, the routes that change overnight and make for the grinding noises around midnight. He relays how the stone is cool in the morning, but heats up during the day and becomes hotter and dry, the further away from the Glade they get.

Beyond the Maze, the land must be arid. It never rains near the edge. Minho told him that, but Thomas does not relay it to Newt. Neither does he say that the Maze is fully mapped and that there is no way out unless it's up—which is impossible—or down—which is solid stone. Their best chance is the box, but someone has tried that already.

Thomas doesn't say those things, because it would not be fair to take that grain of hope from his friend. Which means that when Minho opens the tent that comes with the bed—and which is, by the way, amazing as a shelter from a rainy afternoon like today—and tells him he has something to show him, Thomas is not in the least sorry to leave.

"Minho," Newt grins. He rolls on the bed once more for good measure, and Thomas, who knows exactly what he is doing, rolls his eyes. "Welcome to my palace."

"Not interested in your palace," the answer comes, punctuated by the expected, "shank."

I told you so, Thomas throws a meaningful look at Newt.

Newt smiles like a cheshire cat. "Well, good, because I intend to hold onto it a while longer. Now off you go. I know when I'm a crowd." He looks pointedly at Minho. "Be nice."

Minho throws his hands up and shoots him daggers, and no, he is definitely not the person Thomas thought when he first met him.

"So," Thomas drawls as soon as they reach the drizzle, then scowls. Despite the hardly impressive cramped space inside, Newt's tent is at least dry. "Why don't we Runners have nice places like this?"

Not unexpectedly, he gets sarcasm in return. "What are you talking about? We got the Maze."

"With its exciting local wildlife and captivating hiking trails."

"Exactly."

"Yeah, no thanks. Tell me again why you needed me?"

Minho does have a sense of humour. It's just, it's a bit dark and twisted, and not generally very nice to the person on the receiving end. He enjoys making people sweat. "You missed something today."

Thomas feels his heart plummet because he is positive—was positive—that he followed orders pretty well today. You know, all things considering. "Is it the Griever?" he asks. "I cleaned that up, you saw that. Nothing that can come back to life, I swear. Did I map something wrong?"

But Minho's eyes crinkle and his hands cup Thomas's face, patting his cheeks, and Thomas knows that he is not in any real trouble. His shoulders sag in relief. At least, until Minho speaks. "Rites of passage, my friend. You, Thomas, are going to get shitfaced tonight."

"Shitf—?"

"Drunk. Very, very drunk." He looks so smug with himself, circling around Thomas's personal space. "It's tradition. You wanted to be a Runner, and now you are."

It barely registers when people start shouting. The campfire is a blur, jars filled with water forgotten, and the ground shifts beneath him when his support sits up straight and then leaves.

"What is it?" Thomas slurs.

"Nothing." Newt raises a brow opposite him, looking over Thomas' shoulder. "It's the box. Supplies. Minho, get back here. He's—shuck, and there you have it!—falling."

The world is rotated ninety degrees, though nothing is falling off. It must be him then, Thomas muses. Why did he ever agree to this? It's stupid. Thomas knows for a fact that he hates liquor. It makes him floaty, sure, but in the sense that his stomach feels like tipping over at any moment. He was sure that after his first night in the Glade, there would be no more initiation rites, or more of that funny draft for him, really. The first hangover had been awful enough to deal with.

"Newt," he groans, "Help me up. I'm not sitting straight."

A helpful hand would have been nice; he gets peeling laughter instead.

"I hate you guys."

Newt has none of it. "Hate Minho, man. He's the one who made you," his words turn into a snort, "not straight."

Apparently Chuck is there too, because he is toppling over into Thomas's view, practically sqealing with delight at Newt's oh-so-clever play of words, which takes a moment to process.

"This is not fair, guys," Thomas interjects meekly.

"No, I know. It's just, you know." Another snort.

Thomas would have scowled if they weren't cut short by a loud and significant declaration from the direction of the box.

"It's a girl!"

Apparently, it's a girl.

The second day Thomas has a hangover in the Glade, he feels worse than he has ever felt before. 'Ever' admittedly doesn't span more than three weeks in his specific case, but he doesn't care. He feels incredily, horribly, utterly like shit.

"Where is everyone?" he asks Newt from under sheets that block the bright lights. And Thomas should probably be concerned as to why he is not sleeping on the floor or in a hammock, but then Newt holds up a drink that smells like it can solve all of his problems and he no longer cares. "What happened?"

Newt is busy walking around outside, fetching things here and gathering things somewhere else. "The box came up," he says. "And it's a girl."

"Oh. That."

"Yep. That. Big deal to a lot of people." Newt peeks his head inside the tent. "Drink that," he orders. Back outside, he continues talking like it costs Thomas no effort to listen to him. "How are you feeling? Not that I'm sympathetic to your plight when you finished the last of Alby's draft, mind you, but you seemed pretty far gone."

Thomas groans and hides under the sheets. "Fwl mw ah dn haffa go."

"What's that, mate?"

Footsteps come up to Newt's tent and stop just as a twig snaps under the last step. And true enough, Thomas thinks he hears the devil when a voice calls out, "Thomas! Rise and shine, shank. It's time to go into the Maze."

"Newt?" Thomas whines.

"Yes, Tommy?"

Tommy? Really?

"Kill me, please."

Someone enters the tent, and then he is suddenly exposed to the light of day. Thomas pathetically covers his eyes with one arm, but Minho only raises a brow. "Go slow today?"

Thomas doesn't retort. Coming from Minho, this kindness is hell freezing over, and he isn't going to test it. "Please."

From that moment on, Thomas is a Runner. There are no more surprises, no attempts at getting him physically miserably. Gally continues to voice his mistrust, but when he does, Minho defends him now. He is the Keeper, and he is proud of his team. Even if that team consists of only two people.

Thomas is gradually becoming familiar with the routes of the Maze. He still plans on getting all of them out of there. There will come a day when the Maze no longer constricts them. Until that time, he knows he has to find every secret, every possibility that he can exploit.

There is no reason to still run together, because Thomas knows how to navigate the labyrinth now. He has a whistle he can blow to tell the other Runner of his location. His stamina is improving, his sore muscles are becoming less and less painful by the day. There are days when he just walks, when Minho insists to take it slow when he has pushed himself too far the day before. He learns fast that when Minho insists, complaints will not be tolerated.

So there is nothing that says they should stick together in the Maze, except they just do. They run the same tracks, sit in the stony fields that looks out over the Blades—long sheets of solid metal through which the wind whistles and the heat of outside surrounds them—to catch their breath and have lunch, and occasionally climb up along the ivy for a change of perspective.

Thomas looks forward to run the Maze as soon as he wakes up. It gives him the sense of being free. Minho waits for him near the entrance every morning. They pass some sarcasm back and forth, Minho routinely pats him on the shoulder, ruffles his hair or in any other way physically establishes rank, and they are off.

He spends so much time around the other boy, really, that everyone has stopped paying attention to them during dinner after a few days of funny looks.

For what, really? For sitting next to each other?

They sit in closer proximity every day in the field of the Blades.

No, in the Maze, Thomas is golden.

Outside it, not so much.

The girl from the box is called Teresa. She discovered her name faster than Thomas, but that is not the problem. That she called out Thomas's name before knowing her own, now that raised questions.

He doesn't know who she is, but everyone else is convinced that he does.

"What is her favourite food?" Frypan asks him in a hush on a walk that the boy insisted on 'to settle the food'.

"Does she, you know," Chuck pokes around when it's just him, Minho and Thomas around the campfire late at night, "have a boyfriend?" Seeing that he is several years younger, Thomas thinks he can guess at the insanity going around the all-boys camp thanks to a single girl.

Even Newt wants to know how it is that she knew his name. Thomas wants to shout that he doesn't know, that doesn't know her, and if they did share a past together, all that is left of it has resulted in stilted conversations in which Thomas relays something he promised someone else to tell her.

The hormone-driven attention that he is expected to pass through to her for someone else reach a peak level the afternoon before the full moon when he returns from the Maze.

Minho quirks a brow when a few of them are actually waiting for Thomas to exit the Maze. "Popular these days," he chuckles, before painting a serious and unapproachable expression on his face that tells Thomas he is on his own on this.

"Can we please stay in the Maze tonight?" Thomas sighs. He steels himself. Unfortunately, there is only one way through that crowd.

"Spin!" Chuck chants. "Spin!"

Minho points a fork at his plate. "Do you mind?"

"Oh, eat up!" Chuck has finished his own plate by wolfing it all down, with no respect to Frypan's efforts. Frypan has outdone himself today, for obvious reasons, but he too is preoccupied with something else.

"Spin!" Chuck cries again.

"Chuck, please?" Newt knows he will lose the tent. There is too much anticipation for the game tonight. Someone is going to actually do it, tonight. Someone is going to try and kiss Teresa. Possibly more than one person. They are all certainly hoping for it, and it is going to be a disaster.

Thomas knows it too.

Twenty minutes later, Minho really can't hold up the game any longer. "You're not even playing!" Chuck has tossed at him five minutes ago. "Don't be a spoilsport! Just because you don't care about being a champion doesn't mean you have to spoil it for others." And the words were a bit harsh, Thomas thinks, though he is sure Chuck just really wants to play.

Though in response Minho had looked up and questioned, "Who says I'm not playing?", and Thomas was sure he could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. Everyone had stared at the man for a good minute, and then left him right alone.

Minho is playing. Minho, 'I'm too old for this game', is playing tonight.

They can all wait for a few more minutes.

"Are you sure?" Thomas asks him again when his friend finishes his plate and moves to get up. "Like, absolutely sure? I'm not even sure I'm playing—"

"—Oh yes, you are!" Newt interjects.

"—Shut it, Newt. Minho. Really? You know it's only going to be about one thing tonight, right?"

Minho smiles the sweetest smile Thomas seen him perform though—which means that it's fake—and pulls him up. "Thomas." he shakes his head. "You know what? My muscles have been killing me last month, trying to keep up with your monkey climb act. I really think I deserve a good night's rest for a change."

Thomas can't help but worry that Minho is in it because of Teresa, too.

Because Newt holds the title, Newt takes the first turn. He looks left to right around the ring. They are all there tonight. Every Glader. The circle around the bottle is large, which means that declaring the opponent on the other side of the bottle to is going to be a hassle.

Then again, Thomas does not think people will duck away from it tonight. Remembering how horrible his first game was, and partially because he feels Teresa's virtue is more or less his plight after the excessive interest that has gone her way through him, he has taken the time to explain her how it is played.

Thomas hasn't looked forward to the game. He thinks he now understands why Minho wasn't playing. It is a game that means nothing to him. The tent doesn't, either. Thomas much rather spends his time in the Maze. If winning meant that he would be able to roam the Maze at night for one month, no monsters, he would put in more effort. So why does he feel the adrenaline as soon as the bottle starts its first spin?

"Frypan! It's you, man."

"Aw, man."

It's a little uncomfortable how obvious Frypan would have liked for Newt to be of a different gender. "Pass," he mutters grudgingly. He will have to wait another month for his next chance.

Newt smugly sits straighter and hands the bottle to the next in line.

The first five in line are glancing at Teresa every now and then. Thomas hopes she doesn't have to meet with either of them. Teresa looks less uncomfortable than he expects her to. He wonders if maybe she understands exactly what is going on, and is going to play it to perfection.

Until the first boy who wants to kiss her. Which is pretty much all of them.

No, if Teresa gets a turn to play, she is not coming out a winner.

The game progresses with penty complaining, and more laughter. It also progresses fast. The regular players still make an effort; the others do not. If it's not Teresa—and it never is—"Pass" is shouted in less than a second.

Newt, who has a title to hold onto, is an inch away from being kissed by Alby when he skittishly looks around the group watching them with baited breath, screws his eyes shut, and actually pecks the man on his lips. "Back off my tent." He tries to sound light but keeps his eyes on Alby. "You're out."

What happens is new. Slack-jawed, nobody says a word. The crackle of the fire in the background continues, and in the distance a Griever screeches. Newt sits flushed.

Minho is the first to break into a laugh. And then there is no stopping it. Someone starts, before soon almost everyone is clapping. Alby retreats back to his spot in a daze.

Chuck pulls an equally startled Newt back to his own spot, and proceeds to hug him senseless.

"What just happened?" Thomas whispers to Minho.

Minho leans in, their arms touching as he does. He whispers, like it's a secret, "Newt just kissed Alby."

"I know that, you shuckface. Why is it a big deal? That's the game, isn't it?"

"Because," and Minho is downright grinning right now, "Newt here is gay. Obviously, he thinks the camp doesn't know about it. But if I'm not mistaken, we just witnessed his first kiss."

Thomas part his lips in surprise. "No!"

"Yep."

Suddenly Thomas wishes he was on the other side of the circle to properly congratulate his friend—never mind that Newt looks like he really wants to get out of here and Alby is still staring at him. "I slept in his bed," he realises aloud.

"And if you want to sleep in it again, you're going to have to beat me first," responds Newt, who is still shaken but laughing now. "Wait until your proper turn, Tommy."

"No, man," laughs Thomas, "you keep it. You need it more than I."

"Shut up, Thomas, you're starting to sound jealous."

Thomas really does want Newt to keep it. He does not care about the tent. Frankly he doesn't know why he is playing, except that he has to admit that it is kind of fun. There is something about the game that he lacks in his everyday life. He did not notice it last time, because he had not been in the Glade for long. Now, with the routine he has settled into, the game provides unexpected entertainment.

It is Minho's turn before it will be his. Thomas turns and readies himself to bother the hell out of his friend for whatever choice the bottle is going to land on. It's a thing they do—Thomas certainly expects Minho to give him the same treatment once his turn is over.

Minho does not care about the suspense that some of the others incorporate right before spinning the bottle. He also isn't terribly afraid to spin the thing. Disappointingly, it looks like he just wants to get it over with.

Everyone else wants his turn to last as long as they can drag it out.

The bottle spins, and then slows down, ridiculously fast.

"Come on."

"What?" Minho dares anyone to question him. He looks up at the other Gladers instead of the bottle though, and shrugs. "Well?"

"...Newt."

Thomas deflates. It isn't not fair. He doesn't know why it's not; it just is. He doesn't want either of them to lose. Well. Maybe Minho would not be too bad. He doesn't really care about the tent and the comfortable bed anyway, or he would have played along sooner.

"Pass," Newt mutters before Minho can, and what the actual fuck?

"I'm good at this," Minho declares. "Why else did you think I don't play? It's unfair competition, man. Whatever, you're next."

Thomas stares at Newt accusingly. Why does he give up so easily? He just kissed Alby for the tent, for crying out loud, and now he just gives up? Like that?

Newt just raises his shoulders like there's nothing more he can do, and gestures for Thomas to spin.

Of course, Thomas gets Teresa.

And Teresa passes.

The game spins out of control at that. Newt kisses someone, then gives up in the blink of a second, and then the one reason that has kept most of the others glued to their spot is out. Thomas doesn't know what is going on anymore.

Gally spins the bottle and wins. He looks so sour that Thomas thinks he would have rather lost.

Three more people leave the circle before Minho is challenged again. Minho wins the round before he can blink.

Someone else is eliminated, and then the same thing happens. Minho is by now sitting up straight as a lion, and Thomas wants to push him over just to see that smug expression leave his face.

If it makes him feel any better, none of the others leave Thomas any space to bail out. Except it would make him feel better if they did, because he doesn't think the game is much fun any more. The spirit has left the group as soon as Teresa did. They are just going through the motions, one passing quicker than the next, trying to end the game as fast as they can.

In ten minutes' time, they are down to Minho, Gally and him in record time.

Minho is still smiling when he spins. At least one of them is still enjoying it. "Man, Gally," he says, "I really hope it's you. No offense."

Minho looks at Thomas with a look that Thomas can't read, but which quiets him with a vague sense of feeling bad about what he just said nonetheless.

As soon as the bottle stops, Gally shouts, "Pass!" with his eyes glued on Thomas. He smirks then, the bastard, and retreats from the circle with a gesture that leaves the game to just the two of them.

Naturally, Thomas has not considered that it doesn't matter who got picked, because now he faces Minho nonetheless.

"Don't kiss me, shuckface," he warns.

"Don't make me," Minho drawls. He knows he has won the game, he fucking knows it. "The bed is mine. Step back, shank, and come back in a few years."

Alby hoots. Everyone shoots him daggers to shut him up.

"Stop egging me on, slinthead," Thomas challenges. He wants to step away, but Minho knows all the right buttons to push.

"You're not my type," Minho shrugs. "So I don't—"

Thomas thinks he is making the right decision when he leans forward, looks up at Minho—who returns the gaze with a sudden trepidation—and whispers, "Pass."

"No!" they hear Chuck in the distance. "Thomas, no!"

It is that way in which Minho wins. Which is what he wanted—a comfortable bed to sleep in, until the next moon and the next challenge. A full month of the most coveted spot in the Glade. So why doesn't Minho look happy about it?

Thomas knows he really messed things up this time. Badly. But he has no clue what he did wrong.

A hollow space expands in his stomach.

A night in the Maze sounds really good right now. Anything to get him away from the pitying looks that are directed his way.

"Well," Newt sighs next to him from the spot where Minho was, seconds ago, "you really blew that one."

Newt, naturally, does not give Thomas something to go with. His explanation rounds up to, 'If you haven't figured it out by now, you never will'. In various renditions. Thomas has been called an idiot and a fool, before Newt takes pity on him at last and drops the subject.

The next morning in the Maze, Minho suggests that they cover more space on their own. Thomas is about to ask how his first night in the only good bed of the Glade has been, when Minho waltzes over him with that.

It's a punch in the gut.

"Sure," Thomas replies, because he has been wondering the same thing for weeks and it is the only logical answer. When Minho disappears around the corner however, Thomas is rooted to his spot.

What's the point? They have mapped all of it. Weeks of searching has not yielded the discovery of any weak spots. The Griever, up in the sector that they prefer to avoid these days, is decomposing. If there was a link to be found, they would have found it.

Thomas can't go back to the Glade without Minho. People would worry. And so he makes it to the place where they usually have lunch, climbs up high for the view, and waits.

He thinks absently that it is no fun when it is just himself.

Minho does not make it to the location that day. Thomas whistles him when the sun is at its zenith, just to make sure he is alright. Minho's response is so faint that it must be at least a sector away from him.

He doesn't see him until the walls are cast in shadow—the time appointed to leave before the door closes.

"Can we not do this tomorrow?" Thomas asks.

"Why?" Minho has the gall to pretend that, unlike Thomas, his day was efficient and productive. He pants like he has run a marathon. "It was good, wasn't it? I ran really far today. Personal record, I think."

"It's not fun though, is it?"

Minho smiles wryly. "The Maze is no place for fun, Thomas."

It used to be fun, though. After the Griever. Before today.

"Anyway, I'm dead." The other boy stretches. "There's a comfortable bed waiting for me. Thanks for that, by the way. Let's go."

Thomas is brimming with anger. "What is your problem?" he suddenly bursts out. "What did I do? Just tell me, alright? Everybody keeps giving me these looks, and you're treating me like—like this. And I don't know, alright? I'm sorry if I did something wrong, but I don't know!"

The doors are nearly closing, but Minho is rooted to the ground. "Thomas," he begins awkwardly. "I don't know—"

"Yeah, you do!"

"The doors."

"Minho!" Thomas hisses now. He is desperate and furious. "Tell me."

"If you don't know by now—" Minho bites back, and yanks him along until they are safely on the other side.

—if he doesn't, he never will.

Well, Minho is going to be dead wrong.

For a week, things are uncomfortable in the Maze. Then Thomas gets so thoroughly sick of it that he takes to trailing Minho.

He learns how to make his footsteps fall in line with the Keeper's. He learns when to stop and memorizes the ivy that hides him from sight. He learns it fast.

It is not an honourable thing to do to a friend. Minho deserves more than that, but Minho has avoided him all week. He no longer joins him for dinner. And worse is that Minho just acts like nothing is going on.

Minho did not lie when he said he was good at running. Thomas struggles to keep up with the maddening pace his friend sets. He goes deep into the sectors, running long distances without a purpose other than to simply run. And Minho is a better runner than Thomas, who pushes and pushes himself beyond what is healthy for himself. He has no nutrients to restore his energy, but he has to keep going.

That evening, Thomas does not talk to Minho as they meet up. He can't. He barely has enough energy to return to his hammock, where he crashes before he is able to get in.

That it has been a bad decision is clear when he wakes up the next morning and literally can not move a limb. Thomas is dehydrated. He has lost several pounds in a single run, and his head spins the moment he tries to get out of his hammock.

Newt pushes him back. "Yeah, and what on Earth did you do to yourself, you idiot?"

Thomas looks up. "I have to run," he says.

"The hell you do. Minho left with Alby already. You aren't going anywhere. What on Earth, Thomas?"

Thomas remains quiet. He should not have done what he did, he knows that. Newt has every reason to chide him. His limbs are jelly and the headache throbs equally unpleasantly when he stays still. It's his punishment for having pushed himself too far trying to follow Minho like that. And he isn't happy with what he found out, either.

Minho runs like he tries to forget. He pushes himself to limits that Thomas can not match, and if Thomas would allow himelf to believe his own stupid hunch, then Minho is probably running from someone or something, trying to lose himself in the motions.

Most likely, that's him.

It is a dangerous trail of thought, because Thomas still has no clue as to what he did wrong. He is beginning to understand other things though. Like he really does not like the Maze on his own. And dinner with friends? Not nearly as good when Minho isn't there, making a stupid comment here and there to remind him of his presence. Not that Thomas has ever forgotten his presence, no matter how quiet Minho becomes when he is around others.

Funnily, Minho isn't quiet in the Maze. He never is when he is around Thomas.

Well, past tense.

Thomas kind of liked being the exception to that rule.

Is Minho talkative to Alby today? Are they in the Maze, running together and talking? Is Alby confronting Minho with what happened to Thomas?

Thomas really hopes not, because Minho is not to blame for his own stupidity.

Newt is still waiting for an explanation as he goes over those thoughts. A scraped throat brings him out of his reverie. "Newt?" Thomas asks. "Did I mess things up?"

He says it so quietly that Newt's expression softens, and the boy sits down next to him. "Do you want the truth?"

Thomas sighs. He draws his own conclusions.

"You're a little dense," Newt smiles. "Like, really dense. You followed him, didn't you? Minho says you weren't running together, and that he has no idea what happened to you. You know Minho is Keeper for a reason. He has been running in that shucking Maze for years. How did you think you could keep up with him?"

A groan escapes Thomas, and his headache flares up. Newt pushes a bottle in his hands. He signals him to drink it, shaking his head. Thomas just scowls, but he follows his orders. "Do you think Alby is a Runner from now on?" he asks.

"Why? Does that bother you?"

Thomas looks down. He thinks about that. "I think so," he says honestly.

"Why?" Newt leans forward. "We've got other things you could do, you know."

"I'm a Runner."

"And what does that mean?"

Thomas pulls a face at the medicine. And what is up with all the questions? Thinking is painful enough when a headache is trying to get in the way, but Newt just keeps going when Thomas is sure he knows just how miserably he feels.

"I run," he sighs exasperatedly. "In the Maze. Honestly, Newt?"

"So that's what you would miss most if we assigned you a different duty for your stupidity?" Newt raises his brow. "Running?"

Thomas wants to shout that yes, of course he would. Except somehow the words don't come out. If they would, they would be lies. All these questions are only raising more questions, and Thomas wants to not think for a while.

This time Newt doesn't press it. He smiles knowingly, feels his temperature and tips his head. "How about we get you a good sleep in a proper bed? They aren't going to be back before sundown. Nobody is going to know."

And nobody does know, but then also nobody wakes Thomas up. He falls asleep covered in soft sheets, on a mattress that should not feel so good, and with a tent over his head that shields him from the sun. His last thought is that if he had known about these details before, he might have tried harder to win the game.

But then the idea of what he'd have to do makes him feel both hot and cold, and Thomas quickly pushes the thought out.

His eyes open to light outside. He can tell that it's not yet the afternoon sun, so he must not have slept for very long. Thomas does however feel a lot better. He stretches and takes in his surroundings.

Minho's bed.

His body jumps into action, stumbling out and getting a leg caught in the bedding. When the tent opens, he is found in the charming position of both arms and one leg sprawled on the floor, and a deadpan face at whoever felt the need to disturb him during this embarrassing moment.

"You should have just said so if you wanted the bed that badly." Minho's face is again unreadable, and Thomas thinks he screwed up so bad, but then Minho's exterior crumbles and a chuckle escapes him, and he's crouching in front of him to help him up. "You're so hopeless. I don't know why anyone thought it was a good idea to leave you to your own."

"Shut up, Minho," Thomas grumbles.

"Bossing me around after that stunt you pulled?" Minho questions. "I really can not leave you alone for more than a few days before you mess it up." His words are light, but Thomas hears that Minho is trying hard. "You really should be getting up though. We leave in a few."

"Leave?"

"Maze, Runner. Did you hit your head too?"

"Maze?" Thomas sits up immediately. There is no more headache. "Alby...?"

Minho laughs more naturally now. Things are starting to fit back together in the balance that is comfortable to Thomas. This is how life should be. The Maze. And Minho. And well, Thomas thinks he doesn't need the Maze to feel better today, as long as he gets a few more minutes like this.

"Alby is a dreadful Runner," Minho shares with him. "And he really hates the Maze. I prefer my old Runner, if he stops being an idiot."

Thomas responds with an intelligent, "...Oh."

He doesn't know what triggers it. One moment, Minho is talking to him like they used to and Thomas is just glad to have his friend back. The next, pieces are shifting into place, and then suddenly everything makes sense. And it doesn't make sense, Minho hasn't said anything that merits his head starting to process things the right way.

It just does.

Minho calls him an idiot, and Thomas realises things about him. About himself. It is slightly overwhelming to take in at once. "Uh," he stammers out—and can Minho stop looking at him with concern like Thomas is about to relapse?—"Right. Look, I..." He trails off, opens his mouth, and closes it. "I think I need to see Newt. Like, right now. Can I catch up with you later?"

His suggestion is apparently dreadful. "Uh, no." Minho looks at him weirdly. "Newt? Whatfor?"

"Personal," Thomas blabbers out. "Please. Half an hour?"

Minho tilts his head and looks at him strangely. The warm mood between them drops to the freezing point. "You like him?"

"What?" Thomas flounders. "No!"

"So?"

Thomas is already stumbling towards the door. "Half an hour!" he promises. He won't take longer. Nobody is keeping him from going into the Maze today.

The echo of Newt's laugh stretches out in the valley.

"Shut up," Thomas hisses. Not for the first time, other Gladers are beginning to stare. "Shut up, you shuckface. Am I right or am I wrong? Newt! Come on, man. Stop laughing at me. I really don't k—"

"Go," Newt grins. "Please, for all that is mighty. Go."

The command clarifies it, and Thomas is off.

Half an hour turns out to be five minutes of talking with Newt and twenty-five of being scared out of his mind, but Minho is waiting for him at the edge of the Maze like he asked, his hands crossed and his brow raised. "You asked something stupid again?" he wonders, because of course they all heard Newt's laugh.

"Let's just go," Thomas retorts with a flush and his eyes down. And if Minho can raise his brow any further, it is probably going to fall off. Thomas doesn't look. He runs ahead when Minho lingers, back into the forest of slab stone and warm sunrises, where he is in his element and fewer things confuse him.

"Thomas!" Minho runs after him, catches up. "Hey. What was that all about?"

Thomas simply smiles. When the Glade is far enough behind him, he stops and takes a breath.

"Something I had to check up on," he says. "About the game."

Minho's face sours at the mention. "About the game." He is ready to start running again, to drop what turns out to be an uncomfortable subject, when Thomas grasps his hand and holds him in place.

"About the game." He is not nearly calm enough as he lets Minho's arm go. It's not their surroundings that do this to Thomas, and he prays he hasn't read the signs all wrong, that he isn't rushing into something that he needs more time for. "I can take it from you, you know," he says with baited breath. "It's not against the rules to take it from you."

Minho frowns. Thomas's words begin to dawn on him, Thomas can see it in the way that Minho's legs become unwilling to take a step back and his lips part. No longer does Thomas think his plan sound that crazy. He closes the vacuum between them and steps into Minho's personal space—the personal space that Minho has never cared much about with Thomas—and breathes in.

"You'd better not be playing with me, shank," Minho warns him.

Thomas kisses him.

It's—well, it chases all words from his mind. The air drains from his lungs, and his heart is beating madly. It's worse than when the Griever chased him. And even if Minho does not respond at first, Thomas steels his confidence to last at least two more seconds. He maps a different chart when his lips curiously push against the other boy, wondering how it would feel if Minho gave him more.

When his seconds are up, he can be either smug about having claimed the bed or be quiet about it. Thomas is quiet. Kissing Minho, he decides, is beyond nice. It messes with his thoughts, twists his insides and above all, he wishes he would have done it sooner.

"So," he does at last break the silence. "Do you want it back?"

Minho, for once, is rendered speechless.

"Guess what." Thomas grins smugly. He takes a few steps back, starts bouncing on his feet a little, and he is sure he looks more confident than he feels. He could still be reading into this wrong. If he is, he has just really messed things up.

At least Thomas is honest with himself. "There's nothing in the rules against you claiming it back for yourself. Do you want to?"

Very, very slowly, Minho closes his mouth.

A smile appears.

Thomas dips his head low. Thank goodness.

When Newt asks him if he's hungry, Thomas bites his lip and shakes his head.

Newt offers to bring him a plate with sympathy in his eyes. It's no problem, he insists. The offer is passed up on with a sad smile that Thomas has trouble keeping under control, seated on the bed that he claimed. "Sorry, I'm not really hungry," he says. "Newt? Can you close the tent on your way out? I'm not—"

He leaves the words hanging. He nearly breaks his cover. Thomas struggles to keep his face straight. It's worth it, he tells himself. He can't have Newt trying to take care of him tonight.

"Sure, Tommy."

The tent closes. Thomas looks at the floor. His bare feet are tapping on the mossy floor, his heart hammering in his throat. And true enough, it takes only a few minutes before the tent opens again.

By now Newt will have probably told everyone at dinner to leave Thomas alone, that he feels really shit and needs some time alone.

Which is exactly what he wants them to believe.

"Get off my bed," Minho warns him.

"It's mine now," Thomas shrugs. He crawls back until he is demonstratively sitting in the middle of it, legs crossed.

Minho chuckles warmly. "Not for long, it's not."

"Then I'll just take it back. You can't hold on to it."

"Yeah?"

They have spent the day running after each other, playing this new game between them. What Thomas offers Minho is not a warning but a promise.

"Absolutely."

Minho sits on the bed. If the bed is technically Thomas's, he doesn't protest.

"You made sure nobody is coming in?"

"Aren't I amazing?" Thomas falls back. His head hits the pillow, his breath short. "So."

And Minho reclaims the bed as his own.