Not The Haven Without You (Newtmas)

Thomas spent many nights remembering. Remembering everything they had been through. Both the good and the bad. Primarily, he remembered Newt.

He spent agonising nights laid awake, staring at the canopy above him, remembering the blond haired Brit and how he made Thomas feel. Thomas’ heart would lurch every time Newt so much as glanced at him, never mind when he lips would perk up in that heart melting smile, a glimmer in his deep brown eyes that gave Thomas hope. A world in which this beautiful boy (both inside and out mind that) exists can’t be all bad, can it?

Of course, some nights he would remember different moments. Like the anger Newt held in his eyes when Thomas showed up at the crank palace. Or the absolute desperation in those final haunting words. The three words Thomas could never bear to think of but could never escape.

“Please Tommy, please.”

Thomas awoke yet again drenched in a cold sweat, salty taste of tears in his mouth as he shook silently, unable to escape the memory that plagued him. It had been one month since they took down WICKED. One month of freedom. Supposedly. Thomas guessed that none of them would ever truly be free, the terror of WICKED’s torture too deeply ingrained to ever really be gone. Some of the immunes, the younger and newer kids that had only just begun to be part of WICKED’s games had adapted seemingly well. Fitting in with friends and roles with an ease that seemed to come naturally. Many of the Gladers, however, were still working on that.

Not outwardly, of course. They all put on a brave face out in the Haven. This was paradise after all. Frypan had slipped back into his role as cook easily enough, seeming at peace behind the cookers, though any close observer would see the occasional tremble of his hands and the sadness in his eyes if a moment were left just quiet enough to dwell. Minho ran. Of course he ran. It’s what he did and what he was good at. He’d spend his time making sarcastic jokes and teasing the others into his humorous little conflicts. But his eyes never quite committed to the role.

Thomas, on the other hand, hadn’t quite adapted. He had, of course, been all too happy to escape the previous responsibility he carried, letting others step up and take over as he slunk back into his memories and his regrets. Except the responsibility he felt for Newt’s death. For Teresa. For Alby. For Chuck. For everyone they had lost and would never see again. He held onto that responsibility with a grip like death. Day by day he made it though. He would work in the fields or help Gally out with building. He’d do his part, remembering one of the Glade rules he’d always remember. But everyone knew he was not the same. His eyes would never light up they way only Newt could make them. He smiled occasionally, but never managed to laugh. The grief weighing just enough of him down to keep its hold.

And so it continued. Thomas would work, he would eat, he would sleep, and he would wake up shaking with silent tears, no matter the memory. They all hurt the same. It always hurt to imagine Newt and the love they had shared while knowing he would never experience it again. Not like that. Not with anyone like him.

This pattern continued for; god Thomas couldn’t say. Time meant nothing anymore. Whether a day or a week or an hour passed he could hardly tell. It was just one moment of grief to another. Newt’s soft eyes filled with love to Newt’s eyes filled with rage and desperation and –

He couldn’t handle this anymore

But maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to

One day, on one random morning Thomas couldn’t name if he tried, he awoke to a different atmosphere. There was a kind of urgency as people were running past the windows. Minho, bursting through the door with barely a breath to spare, insisting that Thomas had to come and had to come now.

So he was out of bed with a new feeling, one he couldn’t place, but one that for once wasn’t grief. Anticipation maybe? And he ran alongside Minho for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

And then they’re at the gate (it had been built more for peace of mind than anything else, they didn’t really need walls and gates in the Safe Haven), and people are moving to let Thomas and Minho through. And Frypan is crying. And Gally is stood with his mouth agape. And Brenda is looking at him with a look he can’t understand, one of joy and hope and excitement.

And Thomas all but stops breathing. Because he must be dreaming. Or perhaps its more of a nightmare. And reality will take him soon. Because this cannot be happening.

And then the lips he always loved quirk up into that shy smile that always made him weak.

“Hi, Tommy."