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Newt started his first journal after the jump.
Alby said it would help him organize his thoughts better while he was healing, and he could use it to personally plot his running once he got better.
That comment about running again was a shadowy facade of hope, and Newt had laughed bitterly. The med-jacks had already informed him that the best he could hope for was a limp. Despite the way he played off optimism to the world, pessimism was a thick, gooey tar that consumed his heart. He knew, deep in his soul, that he would never feel the rush of wind against his face as he fled through the endless tunnels of stone. He would never experience the elation of feet pounding the solid rock as he propelled himself towards a better future for the Gladers, the smell of vegetation and rock intermingling in the air that rushed like silk around his flying body.
As he healed, sorrow infused his brilliant mind, convincing him of strange theories and scary emotions. Newt spent sleepless nights glaring at the sky or throwing stones at beedle blades. In time, he came to believe that the true motivation of WCKD was to torture them for enjoyment. He sank into despair as he comprehended that his own defiant jump simply raised the ratings on this goddamn TV show for crooked people who enjoyed watching the abject suffering of others.
But he started writing in the bloody journal anyways, partly due to Alby’s persistence, and partly due to the fact that it gave him a reprieve from the world that was collapsing around him.
Months bled to a year, and before he knew it, Newt had filled a whole journal with poems, stories, and sketches from a year of improvement. He’d blocked off the first half for daily entries, but the rest was just pure Newt, the result of feelings put on paper. He absolutely refused to let anyone even close to it, and the poor occasional Greenie who dared to even get close got the full taste of his acid tongue.
The cover was well-worn with fingerprints, the pages full of flaky charcoal that crinkled the pages. The book was a representation of Newt himself, his true feelings, his worst insecurities, the way he loved how ivy wrapped the walls.
By the time Thomas arrived, Newt was starting his second journal. By this point, everyone knew to leave Newt alone when he was writing or drawing, which he did for at least a few minutes before bed each night. No one suspected that this Greenie would become the only one besides Newt to ever open the thick book.
The day was bright and cloudless when Thomas came up. Newt looked uncaringly into the hole at yet another confused, squinting Greenie, and vaguely thought to himself that the male would be nice to draw. The rich brown hair, the startling hazel eyes, the defined muscles, the strong fingers- Newt was just itching to get his own fingers on a pencil to sketch with.
Thomas seemed to imprint on poor Newt, following him around like a lost duckling, asking the thousands of questions that Newt had never been asked before. His curiosity got irritating at points, but somehow, this Greenie was a bit better than the rest, throwing in a joke or two with his endless waterfall of inquiries. As time passed, Newt found himself beginning to care for the stupid Newbie, the way his eyes scrunched up when he laughed, how he threw his head back with mirth when he let loose, the soft smile he gave Newt when they sat shoulder to shoulder at dinner, or the tingles the ran up his spine when their knees brushed at the campfire.
Unknown to Thomas, page after page in Newt’s journal began to fill up, sketches of his lips, quirked just right, the way the light reflected off of his eyelashes just so, his hands, laced with Newt’s own long fingers. His daily entries grew more and more affectionate as the two grew closer and closer, and many poems were painstakingly edited and rephrased until they were perfect. There were happy ones, full of hope, longing, and the prospect of a bright future. But then there were sad ones, muddled with hatred and unrequited love when Teresa stepped into the picture.
Unbeknownst to Newt, his precious Tommy watched him write every night, loving the way the blonde's eyes scrunched up when he focused hard, the string of incomprehensible words the flowed from the perfect lips when everyone stopped rustling in their bags and night stole the consciousness of the Gladers. If he listened hard, he could hear mutters of, “too dark, no,-- bloody eraser-- dammit,--” in that exquisite accent that he could listen to for hours. Curled in his own sleeping bag, situated next to the blond enigma, the dark-haired boy’s eyes open only a sliver, Thomas drank in every precious moment. In honesty, Thomas’s favorite part was when Newt closed his journal, sighing contentedly, and gazed down at him. The younger always pretended to be asleep, for if he revealed his consciousness, Newt was sure to be scared off. Instead, he laid with his eyes fully closed, repressing quivers of anticipation as Newt stoked a hand through his hair, murmuring, “Goodnight, Tommy.”
The feeling of those nimble fingers on his scalp caused him to lean into the touch instinctively, but Newt clearly assumed it was a sleep-driven reaction.
And so, under the sweet blanket of night, the two of them relished the other’s presence, feeling as though maybe, in this cruel world, they weren’t so alone.
Thomas, by nature, was curious. Sometimes, it resulted positively. He understood a new skill, and could later assist a worker in the garden, or aid in rebuilding something. Other times, it resulted negatively. For example, when he wondered what Newt wrote in that journal of his. Everyone he talked to simply told him “No.” and elaborated with a meaningful or scared look. So when Newt fell asleep next to him with the sketchbook open, Thomas tried to convince himself not to look. He really tried. But sadly, this inquisitive boy possessed minimal willpower, and he found himself easing the book out of Newt’s grasp. The British boy was slumped over, the pencil fallen from his hand and the book loosely grasped in his arms.
Carefully, as though under the stare of a sleeping dragon, Thomas looked at the page it was open to.
His breath stopped.
Newt was good. Like, really good. The drawing was almost finished but went into incredible detail, each vein of the drawing precise and lifelike. Thomas never knew that Newt liked to draw ivy so much, but the sketch of the leafy plant winding up the crumbling stone walls was impeccable. Tenderly, he flipped back a page, hoping to see more incredible artwork.
A beetle blade was next, its glaring eyes alarmingly sinister in the paper and pencil drawing. Its limbs were so realistic that the Runner nearly expected it to climb off of the page. Thomas flipped through the pages with his thumb, his eyes catching some more nature and-
Wait.
Was that… him?
Carefully, Thomas opened to the page that had caught his eye, wincing as the paper crinkled loudly. Risking a glance upwards, he was relieved to see that Newt was still fast asleep. Returning his gaze to the journal, his mouth dropped in awe. It was a close up of his own face, nestled in a sleeping bag, his eyes reflecting starlight and a small smile on his face. There was obvious time and effort in the picture, and his brain scrambled to comprehend why Newt would spend so much time drawing him, of all people. He drank in the artwork like a desert scorched man, his eyes flitting over every small detail of his face. The Greenie knew that he couldn’t look forever, and already, burning curiosity demanded that he look at more drawings. A whisper at the back of his head warned that it might be an invasion of Newt’s privacy, but his insatiable need for more quickly overran it.
The pages were littered with doodles of his hands, his lips, his eyes, all in various positions and settings. He wasn’t being conceited about the fact they were his, for the corner of each page revealed the word Tommy, in small, elegant print.
His life changed on page 251 when he found a drawing of two entwined hands. One was quite obviously his, for he’d seen many replications of his flesh by that point. The other, however, had long, nimble fingers, and--
Holy shit.
Was that Newt’s hand? Non-platonically connected with his?
Thomas could feel his heart begin to pound, a choking warmth beginning to drown him from the pit of his stomach upwards, optimism that could not be stopped. Desperate, he flipped through page after page, desperate to find confirmation of this glorious idea. That Newt, the talented, experienced, caring, (not to mention wildly attractive), second-in-command, might actually- like him back?
None of the other pictures contained the two of them, but he did find a rather nice one of his bare back, muscles generously defined and well toned. He would have assumed it was Minho, actually, but the little Tommy was present, like an angel that let his heart soar on lettered wings.
Then he found the daily entries.
The voice that nagged about privacy and betrayal of trust got a lot stronger, but there was no way Thomas could put the finger-smoothed book down now, not when he was so close to finding the truth.
Thomas flipped to page 1.
Entry #1
That’s right, I’m starting over. No need for entry number three hundred and whatever. New journal, less depressing shit, more bloody happiness.
I saw a cloud today. That would probably sound like a bizarre thing to celebrate, but I absolutely adore trying to capture them. They’re a true challenge, with so many textures and wisps layering into a bundle of dreams. I’m definitely improving, I remember the first time I drew a cloud, all exaggerated curves like a bloody two-year-old.
Thomas could nearly taste the sass in this entry. He grinned, enjoying the tang of the beautiful man’s unique style.
Entry #2
Minho took off his shirt today while working on some construction. Not to sound like a crazy horny kid, but damn, I would hit that.
Thomas felt scorching jealousy begin to well up inside of him- maybe he was mistaken? Maybe the hand was Minho’s, and Newt just liked writing his name? For some reason? He sighed and flipped the page, ignoring the rest of the entry.
Entry #3
Good crop haul. Chuck’s a lot less annoying. Feel bad for the shank.
On a more positive note, I saw a bird today. Dunno how it got here, but it was really nice to see such a real representation that we’re not alone. I lured it in with some crumbs, but it got scared off by some shanks goofing off nearby. I would’ve snapped at them, but I guess the creature made me realize that sometimes, life is worth more than ruining others happiness. I only got a few minutes’ observation in, but enjoy my attempt at capturing its likeness!
Below was a stunningly accurate sketch of a feathered being, majestic in its own right. Thomas couldn’t believe how the small black eye seemed to peer right back at him, the delicate legs perched but ready to take flight. He grinned at the page with delight, his heart glowing for Newt’s hidden talent.
Entry #4
New Greenie today. Looks good for drawing. He seems to have bloody attached himself to me at the hip though (what’s new) but at least he has a sense of humor. Nice eyes too, I’m gonna attempt to draw them tonight. Possible Runner too, and I gotta admit he’s got a pretty nice bod. Not as toned as Minho(duh, the guy is all bloody muscle) but still. Damn, I’m really starting to sound like just another shucking teenager with too many emotions. Well, a lot has improved from entry #1, journal #1, though my limp is staying constant. Kinda thinking of going to Alby about this feely shit, but I know he’d just say, “Don’t be a shuck-face, we accept your homosexual ass,” or some crap like that. Glad I’m no longer running to him in the dead of night, full of self-hatred and minutes away from properly jumping.
Thomas felt a sharp pain prick his heart with those words, the prickling coldness raking across his wrists and through his bloodstream. Both disbelief and self-hatred tore at him due to his inability to help Newt through his darkest times. The young man he knew now was a sassy beam of sunlight, no trace of depression or pain visible to the naked eye.
I’m improving, like the ol’ shuck-face promised I would over a year ago. Didn’t believe him them, but as long as I’ve got charcoal in my hand and an empty page, I know I’ll be alright.
The spike of pain prickled deep into his chest. Thomas craved only to envelop the slim boy in his arms and murmur soft confidence into his skin.
Entry #5
Been a few days, sorry, I was busy with the Newbie. His name’s Tommy, and he could end up being a friend. Asks the worst questions, especially about the maze, Grievers, and escape. I want to say, ‘kid, give it a rest,’ but there’s something in those eyes that gives me the strength to answer the tedious inquiries.
Entry #6
I’m bloody friends with this stupid shank. What can I say, he’s funny, I like to banter with him. He’s kind too, he’s joined up with Chuck, seems to be boosting the kid’s self-esteem. I saw him go out of his way to help Alby yesterday, not to suck up to him, just to be nice. A genuine, caring guy. The Glade sure could use a lot more of those.
(And my gay ass sure would appreciate it, too)
Entry #7
I’ve lost them.
The words were smeared, the page wet, as though tears had fallen fast onto the pages. The entry included a small poem at the bottom, something about demons, fear, and darkness. The page was marred with angry holes that Newt seemed to have ripped when he thrust his pencil against the paper, angry at the world.
Tommy, Alby, Minho- Gone.
And it’s my fault, it’s all my fault, I could have saved Tommy I should have grabbed him and held tight, and now he’s gone-
The words became too blurred to see. Thomas’s mouth hung open- he could feel the urgent scarlet pain behind each gash of charcoal.
The poem was titled Missed Opportunities.
Thomas didn’t read it- it was too personal.
Entry #8
They’re back. They’re back and I want to scream at them all, cry about their stupidity, and I want to hold him so close that we meld and become one being. I will never. Ever. Let him go again.
Him? Who did Newt mean? Alby, the guy he’d supported for years? Minho, his friend? Or Thomas, the Greenie he barely knew. Thomas could feel a twisting thorn of sadness begin to creep through his veins, fear at the possibility that he had misread the signs.
Entry #9
Tommy’s a Runner now, just like I was. Goes out in that bloody death trap every day with Minho, coming back dangerously late, according to me. If I could decide, they’d be back an hour before every other Runner. Well, if I could decide, I’d be out there with him.
Again, this mysterious him. Minho? Thomas? Who?
I mean if I really could decide--------------
A whole line had been angrily slashed out.
Can you hear me laughing? I’m in denial and I know it. Shuck, this boy’s gonna be the bloody end of me.
Entry #10
Shuck my life.
I’ve gone and become bloody attached to this danger magnet with the hazel eyes and the warming smile. He laughs with his whole body, as though sunlight is squeezing out of his edges. I can still see him, framed by firelight, Gally’s drink held loosely in his hand as he laughs at one of my jokes. He’s so open and honest, his thigh pressed against mine, making concentration and breathing hard. I can feel his warmth, so close, and yet so many worlds apart. He slung his arm around me at one point, and I couldn't help but nestle into his shoulder. He smelled of smoke, sweat, and something distinctly, him, something that makes me want to huddle in his embrace and just melt there. I can feel the strength in that arm, and I am once again reminded of how tight he could hold me if he were mine.
The key word in that sentence is if.
Now that the euphoria of the night is fading, leaving only the last dying embers, a lone spark, and a dull sky, I can feel guilt beginning to swallow me, as though I’m drowning in a wave of bile. My Tommy, he’s just- so innocent, he thinks that I’m just his friend. I’m taking advantage of him and I know it; he doesn’t know the way my heart stutters when we brush hands at dinner or sit closer than normal friends. He never sees the lovestruck smile that Minho says is glued to my face whenever he’s around. He’s a gem in a world of dust, and I only wish I could live up to something that he could love in return.
Love?
Love.
Thomas blinked several times, rereading the passage to ensure it meant what he thought it meant. After the fourth read, he accepted it as truth: the glowing feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t one-sided. In fact, it seemed to be fully, irrevocably, returned. A burning smile grew rapidly across his face, blazing an indestructible trail of glee that settled into his soul.
Entry #11
Been awhile. Teresa came up. I discovered the shank I’m in love with is straight. Will spend the next bloody week crying in private and trying to get over him.
I’d say I missed this feeling, the paper that smells so right and the dust on my fingers, but I’m too bloody angry at myself and the shucking world right now.
Why does nighttime do shadows fall
When his the his light is so near within my reach
Why do hearts maul
As though my color’s life’s out to bleach
Entry #12
Not over him.
Entry #13
Its back its back the feeling back oh my GOD I THOUGHT IS WAS GONE PLEASE
Thomas inhaled sharply, surprised by the intense change in mood. The letters were sloppy and desperate, the page crinkly from dried tears.
Write it out write it out write it out newt do what alby says write it out deep breathsI CANT BREATHE YOU WANT DEEP BREATHS? Write it out please oh god why is it back now please god why
Write it out------
A lump forms in your throat and you can't hold the tears in and every little thing, every little responsibility seems to press in on all sides. And then the tears break and you are crying helplessly trying to stop but you can't and it's so overwhelming so you put you head in your hands to hide the tears and watch them fall in the pages below, silencing sobs with a practiced pain. And your voice is high, so high when you say that you are fine and you feel the strain and you pray it won't crack but of course it does and now they are worried. But you brush them off and you run away because they don't know that you are telling yourself how stupid you are and how worthless and how dumb and how ugly and how unwanted and how no one likes you and how your future is bleak and the tears keep falling and you can't stop them.
And all day I felt the pain, the pressure, telling me, beating against my skull and oh it hurts.
And then I cried, shaking and cold, tears fresh and painful
I thought it was gone, IT HASN’T HAPPENED IN WEEKS OH GOD HELP ME
PLEASE WHY DO I DESERVE THIS
My chest tightens and I can't breathe and a scream silently escapes me for they can't know this is happening and when I leave the room please don't ask why
And I'm writing and the tears are hot and sticky and I want to die so bad oh my GOD
I WANT TO DIE IT FEELS SO RIGHT PLEASE JUST LET ME DIE
I haven't had suicidal thoughts in so long and now this I hate relapses I'm so cold again help
Help help help help help help help help ME please
Please
And my sobs are silent and no one can ever know and I'm cold so cold but my tears are warm and full and true and I
I just really want to die
I'm so sorry Tommy
The entry was complete with an ugly line of hurried blood droplets.
The brunet in question sat with his jaw hanging wide, silent tears trickling steadily down his face as he realized the true horrors that this perfect soul had endured.
Entry #14
I think he’s awake when I say goodnight.
I leaned really close last night, trying to get one last whiff of that perfect smell, and I could hear his heart thumping wildly. There’s no way he could have been dreaming because his breathing was nice and slow. I wonder why he faked it? Or why he didn’t push me away. I mean, he’s obviously straight, cough cough Teresa. Running a hand lovingly through your best friend’s hair isn’t very platonic. In fact, it's incredibly gay. I’m kinda sad now because I was gonna start planting a kiss on that relaxed brow, just to soothe him maybe-
Oh god, I’m such a creep. I would never do that- shuck, what’s wrong with me? He obviously doesn’t want me, I’m not going to force myself on him. I’m a shucked up asshole. Ignore that, please, I’d never actually do it.
At this point Thomas was soaking up every word, freely letting the raw emotion of each word sooth his frayed heart. It was like being a rock that fights the tide, hating the pain of the pressure, but still adoring how it began to shape his rugged sides into something new and smooth.
Entry #15
I am never getting over this bleedingly perfect son of a bitch.
Shuck.
Entry #16
I remember that time someone asked for a book, and all they got was a thick as fuck history textbook full of these long-ass names and countries we don’t remember. I can still feel my desperation as I drank in every word on the page titled Isaac Newton, grasping for some reason to my namesake.
I remember disappointment, the way my heart sank, the physical feeling of a stone dropping out of my chest. Who was this idol, who apparently is renowned worldwide? He was brilliant, sure. Figured out some crazy math about the Earth? Sure. But batshit insane? Most fucking certainly.
Maybe they knew I’d become just another fucked up excuse for a human being, rambling on about my own personal addictions. I’m not very into the science of alchemy like the old croak was, but I sure as hell am obsessed with magic.
Magic meaning him, of course.
I know now that there’s no way to overcome the way my cheeks flush and my heart tries to escape my ribs. I know now that I cannot ignore him- it only brings confusion and worry to those caring hazel eyes, and I can’t bring myself to ever hurt such a precious deity. The only thing I can do is suffer, yearning for something that will never even be within my grasp.
Cheers to you, Isaac.
To be hone tell the truth it’s painless,
Falling back in love
Entry #17
He’s sleeping next to me tonight. Normally I’d lament about the smell of earth and the indescribable Thomas scent that comforts me so, but I’m kinda feeling tired, so this’ll probably be a short entr
The words cut off, as Thomas assumed the taller boy had fallen prey to the curtains of sleep.
There were no further entries to the journal, only blank pages begging to be competed. With a heart as light as love itself, Thomas gave in to his impulsiveness and picked up the pencil that lay discarded in the dark blades of grass.
Entry #17 (part 2)
I read his journal today. He fell asleep next to me, the book hanging wide open and his golden bangs strewn over his heavy eyelids. I admit that I’m not usually good with words, or similes, but for him, I can always try.
Thomas sucked in a breath, glancing at his own scratchy writing, so different from Newt’s elegant script. This was it.
He’s got the smile of an angel when he looks at me, the laugh of the devil when he punches my shoulder. He’s got features prettier than gold, no matter how much ol’ Isaac Newton must’ve tried to capture this radiance with his alchemy. He may or may not have a crush on me, judging by the previous entries.
I just gotta say, Newt, I sure am shuck glad I read your journal tonight.
I mean, without it, we probably would’ve both stayed hopelessly pining after one another indefinitely, oblivious to the fact that we both loved each other.
So yeah, I’m pretty shuck glad. I don’t even know how a caring, selfless, (not to mention wildly attractive) boy like you would ever want a Greenie like me, but if you’re willing to have me, I’d love to hold you close every night.
I guess that’s all? I’m not the most articulate like I mentioned before, but I guess it boils down to…
Will you be my boyfriend?