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Newt still felt ashamed for yelling at Thomas earlier that day.
He felt so disconnected from those events, as though he’d experienced them mentally but from somewhere outside of his body. How could his own arms have so forcefully slammed his best friend against the wall? His mind kept replaying the words he’d spat so viciously, kept reminding him of the fear and concern on Thomas’ face.
It made him feel sick.
Newt was calmer now, despite the open wound on the back of his neck and the raging pain in his arm; he gazed up at the high ceilings of the church and felt an overwhelming wave of serenity wash over him. He’d never believed in anything sacred, not that he could remember anyway, but there was something about being in a quiet place of contemplation that momentarily dulled his thoughts and his pain.
He searched for Thomas, something that had essentially become a habit. He wasn’t sure if keeping tabs on Thomas was for his friend’s benefit or for his own. Undeniably there was something reassuring about Thomas’ presence, that was made clear to almost everyone from the moment he arrived in the Glade. But what Newt wondered was whether everyone else felt the same, irrepressible urges of wanting to take care of Thomas while also wanting to be taken care of by him.
The dichotomy of emotions confused Newt. This confusion certainly wasn’t helped by the few drunken kisses the two had shared in the long grass of the hillside and by the fire after everyone else had fallen asleep. They happened almost accidentally during the months that had passed since Minho was taken - six long, exhausting months of scheming and planning. Thomas had concluded that the kisses were mistakes caused by the unfortunate combination of stress, alcohol and the loss of their friend.
Newt never shared his own opinion: that they were instead caused by the irresistibility of Thomas’ lips and his own unruly impulses.
His eyes found Thomas sat before Teresa, who was getting to work at removing the tag at the nape of his neck. He watched closely as Teresa rested her hands on his shoulders and felt the burning sensation consume his body once again. It wasn’t anger or jealousy, not entirely, but it was the illness, the fever, the crank within him rising to the surface. He tried to suppress it but found his legs shaking, his teeth sinking dangerously into his bottom lip.
“Hey man, you good?” Frypan’s voice snapped Newt back into reality. The burning feeling was still there, Newt’s entire body felt like it was on fire, but his temper had disappeared.
“Yeah, fine,” he mumbled in response, allowing himself to glance back over at Thomas. Teresa had finished with him now, and the dark-haired boy was pressing a cloth to his neck, wincing slightly. Newt resisted the urge to rush over and help him, to care for him the way he had always longed to. Instead he vigorously rubbed his hands over his own face and through his hair in an attempt to shake away his thoughts.
Now is not the time.
“I don’t trust her either, man,” Frypan said quietly, nodding at Teresa. “She betrayed us. Traitors don’t deserve second chances.” Newt simply hummed in response, lacking the energy or willpower to force himself to reply verbally. His right hand trembled, and he flexed his fingers in an attempt to still it.
“Anyone up for a costume party?” Gally chimed in, a little too cheerily, wearing a stolen WCKD uniform. He threw an identical set for Newt to catch - which he barely did, he felt so weak - then tossed one to Thomas too. Newt was very aware that, feeling so weak, he would struggle to return to his feet unaided, so he reluctantly held out his arm in a gesture for Thomas to pull him up.
“Quit joking around, Gally,” Thomas said sternly, noticing Newt’s feebleness and giving him his signature ‘you okay?’ look as he helped him to stand. “We’ll put these on and head over to WCKD. Gally, keep an eye on Teresa. Frypan, make sure Gally keeps an eye on Teresa.”
Newt let out a small laugh which soon turned into an excruciating cough. His throat burned, but the rest of his body cooled slightly as Thomas placed a comforting hand on his back.
The two boys relocated to the church’s vestry, a small, cramped room designed to house a priest’s clothes and items of worship, now totally devoid of anything valuable. The only significant object in the room was a small painting of Jesus hung on the wall. Newt felt like giving it the middle finger, cursing at it, tearing it down.
He rested against a small table as he pulled the heavy trousers over his already-clothed legs, the simplest action taking all of his energy. He sighed loudly, evoking Thomas’ attention.
“Hey, Newt,” Thomas said, his voice low. Newt loved how gently Thomas spoke to his friends. He wished he could reach out to touch his voice somehow, to see if it felt as soft as it sounded. “You doing okay?”
“Bloody fantastic, Tommy,” Newt joked, letting out a sharp laugh. “Bet I look it, too.”
He then thought about how awful he must look, sunken eyes, prominent veins on his cheeks, white as a sheet. He turned away from Thomas as he wriggled the trousers up over his hips, suddenly self-conscious for what could have been the first time ever. He dealt with this the way he’d always dealt with unusual emotions: with humour.
“Eyes above my waistline please, greenie. I can feel you staring from here.”
“Bit full of yourself, don’t you think?” Thomas retorted, jokingly. Newt turned to face him, the two of them mirroring each other’s smirks.
“Can’t blame me, the amount of times I’ve caught you staring at me when you think I’m not looking. It’s like you’re obsessed with me.”
“Shut up, you shank,” Thomas laughed, but Newt couldn’t mistake that signature, rosy blush on his cheeks. It was true, on countless occasions had Newt noticed Thomas sneaking glances at him.
Newt was guilty of this too, of course.
“We’ll get you better, Newt,” Thomas said suddenly, completely transforming the atmosphere into a serious one. “We’ll get the serum and we’ll get outta here.”
Newt’s insides were set alight again.
“What then, huh?” He hurled back sharply, eyes darting up to Thomas’ hurt face; furrowed brows and concerned eyes. “What about when we run out of serum? When I inevitably hurt you or someone else? What then?” His mind felt trapped inside his body again, unable to tell himself to stop being such a pathetic twat.
“Newt, stop it,” Thomas breathed, reaching out to grab Newt’s bad arm. Instead of arguing back, as he would have done had anyone else yelled at him like that, he simply ran his calloused thumb over the discolouring skin on Newt’s forearm. They were stood stiflingly close to each other now and Newt had almost immediately relaxed underneath Thomas’ touch, as if he’d been extinguished by cold water.
If I move just a few inches forward, Newt thought, our noses would be touching.
Newt shook off Thomas, pulling the outfit up over his arms & chest, now in full WCKD costume. He sat up on the table and watched as Thomas pulled his uniform on over his clothes, finding his eyes involuntarily wandering to the boy’s tanned, muscular arms. The arms that had held him when they’d made out in the hills of the Right Arm camp, the arms that would hold him if he pulled him onto this table with him right now.
“We look bloody good in these outfits, Tommy,” Newt said with a grin.
“Oh, thank God,” Thomas laughed, returning Newt’s smile. “We’ve gone back to ‘Tommy’ instead of ‘greenie’. Felt like I was back in the Glade there for a second.”
Newt really did feel like he was back there. The two of them, laughing, joking, closed off from the outside world. It felt nice to joke around with his friend, to ignore the fact that the world was awful and that he felt awful, even just for one moment. If only he could stop time, have them stay here in this tiny room forever, doing the unholiest of things. That, for Newt, would be utterly, utterly divine.
Now is not the time. Newt repeated his mantra to himself, trying to shake off his thoughts. But… if not now, when? I might not get another time like this with Thomas, alone. Alive. Fuck it.
“Thomas,” Newt mumbled, leaning back onto his elbows as he watched him finish adjusting his uniform.
“Oh, now we’re back at Thomas? I’m not even Tommy anymore? Make your damn mind up,” Thomas grinned, but his expression quickly fell when he noticed it wasn’t returned. Instead, the blonde looked incredibly solemn. “What is it, Newt?”
“You remember our drunk kisses?”
“Sure.”
“I think that, when I die, those will be my favourite memories.”
“Stop talking like that,” Thomas’ voice wavered as he sat himself beside his friend on the table. The two of them looked up at the painting on the wall, avoiding eye contact. “You mean if you die, not when.”
“Alright, if I die, I reckon those kisses will play in my mind as I approach the white light, when I’m united with the big man up there, or whatever the hell happens when you kick the bucket.”
He was joking again, but there was some sincerity in his words. Those kisses were his most treasured memories; moments of sheer paradise in a world so full of pain and suffering.
“What are you saying?” Thomas whispered, turning towards him. Newt could feel Thomas’ breath fanning over his neck. If not now, when?
“You know exactly what I’m saying,” Newt replied, replicating Thomas’ movements so they faced each other, mere inches apart. “They weren’t mistakes, Tommy.”
“No,” was Thomas’ brief, quiet response. He reached up to cup Newt’s veined cheek with his hand. Newt relaxed into his touch, his insides no longer feeling fiery nor cool but almost fizzy, like his blood had become carbonated. “They weren’t.” Thomas’ other hand came to rest upon Newt’s thigh, and although the fabric of the WCKD uniform was thick, Newt could feel his skin tingling beneath the weight of his hand.
“I can’t believe this,” Newt laughed in a short exhale, unable to stop the grin spreading across his lips.
“What?”
“You’re making a move on me when I look like this,” Newt replied, and Thomas couldn’t help but chuckle. “You got a thing for cranks, Tommy?”
“Oh my god, shut up,” Thomas murmured, and the blonde really did shut up, because their lips were pressed hard against each other. It was all so quick; Newt’s hands grasped at Thomas’ chest while Thomas’ right hand stayed firmly planted on his cheek, with his left hand slipping up to squeeze Newt’s hip.
This was nothing like the timid, experimental kisses they had shared in the hilltops in the early hours of the morning. No, this was passionate and messy, the two of them forgetting to breathe, their hands knowing no boundaries. Thomas grabbed fistfuls of Newt’s long hair while Newt’s shaking fingertips explored every inch of Thomas’ back and shoulders, all without breaking the kiss. Newt couldn’t believe Thomas was kissing him in this state and he began to worry whether his mouth tasted gross or whether his skin felt weird. His paranoid thoughts were soon shoved to the back of his mind when Thomas pulled him onto his lap.
“Tommy,” Newt breathed between rushed kisses. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this? Since the Glade.”
“Why the hell did we wait so long?” Thomas hummed into Newt’s neck, planting sporadic kisses wherever he could reach. Newt’s eyes stung with tears at his words.
“We left it too late,” he whispered, hoping Thomas wouldn’t hear him. But he did, and he met Newt’s gaze with sorrowful eyes. “We had so much time, Tommy. And now we’ve run out.” Thomas barely let Newt finish his sentence before interrupting it with a soft and agonisingly slow kiss, foreheads pressed together.
“Looks like there’s something you guys forgot to fill me in on,” Gally’s voice called from the doorway. Had Newt had the energy he would have sprung up from Thomas’ lap in an instant, or shouted for Gally to piss off, but instead he just let his head fall onto Thomas’ shoulder. “Well, we’re leaving soon, so uh - you should probably finish up this lovefest.”
Alone again, the two boys stood up, Thomas helping Newt to his feet. He reached up to fix the blonde boy’s tangled hair and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. Newt studied the details of Thomas’ face, determined to remember every mole, every freckle, every crease.
“We’ll get you better,” Thomas repeated his words from earlier. “We’ll get you better and you and I can do this all the time, every night, until we die of old age.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Newt joked, earning a playful punch on his good arm.
“Oh, you’ll be exhausted alright,” Thomas teased, and for once, Newt was speechless. “You’re gonna be fine, Newt.”
“Okay,” was all Newt could reply, hoping his voice would come out sounding more convincing it did in his head. Thomas’ positivity was comforting and, although Newt didn’t feel quite so hopeful about the situation, he didn’t want to worry his Tommy. He couldn’t bear to voice the horrific thoughts he’d been picturing since he realised he was sick. Newt reached up to touch the pendant around his neck, twiddling it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Ought to get going, then,” Thomas said, passing Newt a helmet before grabbing his own. “Oh, and Newt?”
“Yeah?”
“You do look damn good in that outfit, even for a crank.” Thomas smile was pure sunshine, it warmed Newt’s body in a soothing way, far from fires he’d felt earlier.
“Take a picture, Tommy, it’ll last longer.”
Newt felt the pain of his words as he spoke them, feeling tears begin to brim in his eyes. Once he’d slipped the helmet over his head, he allowed the tears to stream down his cheeks, hidden from Thomas’ eyes. He was going to give it all he’d got, if not for himself, for the boy whose kisses felt like a cure.