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Thomas has been in paradise for 50 moons when he starts planting sunflowers. There's barely enough fresh ground and healthy seeds to fill a small field. No one asks him why or stops him, no one wants to know what he went through in those last moments, and no one ever mentions his name. Minho asked once and Thomas felt like he deserved to know so he told him everything, voice dead and cold. Minho squeezed his hand so hard Thomas thought it was going to break and they mourned their friend in silence; the urgency of their lives gone and leaving nothing but their memories to rehash over and over again.
“You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin' up. Plain and simple.”
So Thomas gets busy. He wakes up before the break of dawn and gets to work. He doesn't do crops or corn, other people are busy enough doing that. He plants nothing but sunflowers, gets back when it gets dark and his clothes are covered in dirt and his hands are sore.
After a week the others join him in his task; they still don’t ask why but when he looks over at Minho there’s a knowing look in his eye and he works just as hard as Thomas. The sun burns his back, unrelenting and mocking in the sky but they keep going. Every day without fail, they go out and plant flowers.
It's been one hundred moons since he's been in paradise when he lies down in a field bursting with sunflowers, all of them pointing straight up at the sky, right at him, and he’s surrounded by yellow, like his hair, his smile beneath the golden sun of the glade.
There are tears in his eyes, silently leaking down the sides of his face and to the grass, feeding the earth, but for the first time since the trials ended he feels in peace.
Thomas breathes in the sweet smell of the flowers and just for a moment he feels like Newt is lying down next to him. His hands reach out to the sides and they come back painted yellow.
There’s a flutter of movement to his right and a strong hand slipping into his and his eyes snap open fast, almost expecting to see Newt’s mocking smirk, hoping against hope someone will call him ’tommy’ again but instead there’s Minho looking around in wonder, and smiling brightly.
Thomas sits up and takes a deep breath.
“It feels like him” says Minho, amazed “It’s all-”
Thomas squeezes his hand tightly and nods “Golden.”
They stay until the sun goes down and the yellow turns purple all around them, a happy feeling settling slowly inside their hearts.
Golden: Lustrous, radiant. Of the greatest value. Precious.