Chapter Text
"I put in all the words and one by one they appeared on the screen; then something beeped and they'd disappear. But it won't let me type the last word! Nothing's happening!"
Teresa's words pierced Thomas' heart like ice daggers, freezing all hope as they stung him. "Well... Why?"
"I don't know!" She tried again, then again. Nothing changed.
"Thomas!" Chuck screamed from behind them. Thomas swung to see him pointing at the Griever Hole—another creature was making its way through. As he watched, it plopped down on top of its dead brother, moaning, and another Griever started entering the Hole. "What's taking so long!" Chuck cried frantically. "You said they'd turn off when you punched the code!"
Both Grievers had steadied themselves and extended their spikes, moving towards them.
"It won't let us enter the word PUSH," Thomas absently explained, not really speaking to Chuck, trying to come up with a solution...
I don't get it! Teresa said. Neither did he.
What was wrong? It was supposed to work. Thomas stared at the Grievers lukewarmedly, almost without seeing them. Their friends were dying up there for something. The code was supposed to—
"Maybe you should just push that button," Chuck said.
Thomas was so surprised by the random statement that he looked away from the Grievers to glance towards the kid. Chuck was pointing at a spot near the floor, right underneath the screen and the keyboard.
Teresa was already there, crouched on her knees. And consumed by curiosity, by a fleeting hope, Thomas joined her, collapsing to the ground to get a better look. He heard the Grievers moan and roar behind him, felt something clawing his back and a sharp prick of pain. But he could only stare.
A small red button was set into the wall only a few inches above the floor. Three black words were printed there, so obvious he couldn't believe he'd missed it earlier.
Kill the Maze
Another wave of pain snapped Thomas out of his stupor. The Griever had grabbed him with two pincers, dragging him backwards. The other one was preying Chuck, trying to stab the kid with a long blade.
A button.
"PUSH!" Thomas screamed, louder than he'd thought possible for a human being. He felt his throat soar at the yell. It hurt.
Teresa did.
She pushed the button and everything fell dead silent. Then, from somewhere down the dark tunnel, came the sliding sound of a door opening.
The Grievers had shut down completely, their deadly metal arms sucked back through their blubbery skin, their lights turned off, their inside engine quiet. And that door...
Thomas fell to the floor after being released from the monster's claws, and despite a lacerating pain all across his back, the sound of the door slipping open elated him so much, he didn't know how to react. He gasped, then laughed, then began sobbing before breaking into laughter again. They did it. They solved the Maze.
It was like someone had put all the positive feelings inside a fridge and locked it down the moment Teresa triggered the Ending—and he'd just found the key to that fridge and released all the good emotions. They defroze with every moment that passed, invading him, soothing his altered heart and exiling all anguish, dread, terror and misery.
Chuck had scooted away from the Grievers—Teresa held him in a tight hug, squeezing him fiercely. "You did it, Chuck," Teresa said. "We were so worried about the stupid code words, we didn't think to look around for something to push—the last word, the last piece of the puzzle."
Thomas laughed again, in disbelief that they'd managed to solve the Maze after all they'd gone through. "She's right, Chuck—you saved us, man! I told you we needed you!" Thomas rose to his feet and joined the bear hugh. Down his face rolled hot tears of happiness, of relief that it was over. "Chuck's a shucking hero!"
"What about the others?" Teresa said with a nod toward the Griever Hole. Thomas felt the delirious happiness wither, and he stepped back and turned to face the Hole.
As if to answer her question, someone fell through the black square—it was Minho, looking as if he'd been scratched by a very furious legion of cats.
"Minho!" Thomas shouted, filled with relief. "Are you okay? What about everybody else?"
Minho hobbled towards the curved wall of the tunnel, then leaned there, breathing heavily. "We lost a ton of people... It's a mess of blood up there... Then they all just shut down." He paused, taking in a deep, shaky breath. "You did it. I can't believe it actually worked."
Thomas didn't listen to his last words. His mind was stuck in Minho's first sentence.
We lost a ton of people.
Newt.
He had been up there the whole time.
He hadn't come down the Hole with Minho.
Thomas began breathing faster and faster, taking almost no air. He felt a heavy pressure on his chest, like an elephant had sit atop of him. His lungs couldn't take in enough air, because it hurt. Whenever he gasped in the slightest breath of air, it hurt like a thousand burning needles on his torso. There was a buzz in his ears, an army of bees roaring. Or weren't there bees? He didn't see any, but what else could be causing the noise?
He rose a shaky hand to his hair, then closed his fist around it so tight, he actually ripped some strands off. He wasn't in the Griever Hole anymore; he was standing on the Cliff, blood staining the floor, the corpses, Newt's pale and still body. Death in the air. Death in his heart.
Why hadn't he grabbed him stronger? Why had he let him go? Why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy
why
why
why.
If one could be dead while alive, Thomas was.
He closed his eyes. A part of him thought it was funny how fast the heart changed from complete elation to complete devastation, but it was soon swallowed by the void of guilt and pain. After all, he hadn't been able to save what mattered the most.
Something dropped to the floor with a thump. And then another thump. And another, and another... There were eighteen landings in total, counting Minho's, though Thomas didn't want to open his eyes. He was afraid that he wouldn't see Newt and confirm his worst fear.
"Half have died," Minho somberly say. "But you know what? Half might've died, but half of us shucking lived. And nobody got stung—just like Thomas thought. We've gotta get out of here."
Half. A fifty percent. The chances were that, in one of every two cases, Newt had died. Thomas hadn't heard him yet, and if he were there, he would've already called him Tommy. Congratted them. Said something. Done something. Anything.
Too many had died. Too many by far. The painful hole in his chest widened, mourning the twenty people who'd been killed as well. Despite knowing that, hadn't they tried, all of them might have died, it still hurt to think that they'd lost so many Gladers. Such a display of death—how could it be considered a victory?
"Well, let's bloody get out of here. Right now."
Thomas opened his eyes.
Normally, the first thing you'd say to a loved one whom you thought was dead but is actually alive—though bruised and covered in yellow Griever ooze, dirt and blood—is not "I hate you"; yet that's what Thomas yelled when he saw Newt standing besides Frypan.
"I HATE YOU, NEWTON!" he screamed. Even though he still felt horrible for the dead Gladers, an overwhelming anger was taking over quickly, filling the hole that Newt's hypothetical death had carved in his chest. He knew he should've been over the Moon, having checked that Newt was still alive; but he was besides himself with anger. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, FUCKING SHANK!"
"Well, I'm obviously not," Newt calmly replied. He began scratching a large scab of blood on his left arm. He wasn't holding his pole anymore and, just like the rest of the Gladers', his garments were torn apart. Thomas glimpsed the slightest hint of a deep scratch across his chest.
"I thought you were dead," Thomas repeated quietly, taking a moment to process that Newt was still alive, that his death had been a horrible trick of his mind. "I swear, I... I hate you."
"Please, Thomas," Newt snorted, unfolding his arms, "shut your bloody hole and kiss me."
They didn't have to say anything else; they didn't talk any more. When Thomas crashed into Newt's open arms, they were two forces of nature colliding; a roaring wave breaking against a cliff. They fit so perfectly, it felt as if they'd been designed to be one.
Thomas' lips were warm against Newt's. And that's the only thing on which Newt could focus. How warm, respectful, careful and sweet they were. Thomas' energic personality, which was what grabbed his attention from the very first moment, seemed to have faded, making room for a child that has taken the first step but doesn't dare to aim for the second.
"Now we're even," Newt would say when they pulled apart. But he didn't say or even think that, because Thomas had taken over all of him. He was able to gather enough willpower to make himself bite Thomas' lower lip gently, but after that, he just let go.
He forgot about the Gladers, about the Grievers, about the Creators; he forgot the worse minutes of his life, the time he'd just spent fighting the Maze's hideous creatures and watching his partners die. Newt forgot there was anything else in the world besides Thomas.
And why did it matter, anyway? It couldn't be better than the boy he held in his arms. The one who flooded his insides with relief and warmth, reaching every inch of his being and dissolving all the fear and the grief.
Finally, after two years of painful survival in the Glade, he allowed himself to be free. Free from worry, from depression, from boredom, for despair, from responsibility, from anger, from leadership, from memories, from deaths, from losses, from guilt, from insecurities. Free to laugh, to live, to dream, to smile, to kiss, to hug, to hope, to love. Free like a bird. Free as he had always wished. He allowed Thomas to be his freedom. And he decided to embrace this freedom once and for all, and to never leave his side.
No one spoke a word about the passionate kisses they shared after, even though it was worth commenting. Either the exhaustion from the battle or the startle from the scene prevented all Gladers from making fun or even giving their opinion; if they had any, they saved it for themselves. Only Teresa talked to Thomas.
You look happier than I've ever seen you before, she said. Thomas reached out mentally to scan her thoughts, trying to distinguish any encountered feeling, but he only found tender and pride, the kind of pride you feel when your best friend finds the love of their life.
Well, I am. He squeezed Newt's hand, enjoying the simple pleasure of being able to do so publicly. Thought this shank was dead, and here he is.
Tom... Teresa hesitated for a while before going on. You didn't understand me. What I'm trying to say is, does he make you happy?
Thomas didn't need to think twice. He makes me happier than anything else.
An image flashed before Thomas' eyes—a young man, with auburn hair and a warm smile. I'm glad you remembered him, she said in his mind. When I saw him, I remembered a bit about... What happened before the Maze. I remembered you with him, smiling. It was the truest smile I've ever seen, Tom. I'm... I'm so glad to see it again.
When Thomas looked at her, Teresa was wiping her eyes discretely. She smiled at him, her eyes watery with tears. Despite all the losses, Thomas felt so happy at that moment that he didn't mind hugging Teresa in front of everyone. The Gladers would have plenty of issues to talk about that night, that was for sure. He passed his right arm over the girl's shoulders, bringing her closer. Thanks, Teresa, he thought. He let his gratitude impregnate those two words. For everything.
You're welcome, Tom, she answered. Thomas felt her smiling.
And right there, down the Griever Hole, holding his best friend and his love, Thomas felt complete. They didn't know what awaited them at the end of the corridor, nor did they have any idea of what would happen next. But it didn't matter anymore.
Not when he had Newt by his side.
Not as long as he did.
Not while he had his love to keep him going.
It simply didn't matter as long as they had each other.