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“Newwwttttt,” Thomas drawled affectionately, plopping down beside his favorite person, smiling widely. He was half a jar of Gally’s horrid alcohol down and feeling fantastic. He was warm and happy and now, sitting next to Newt who was smiling his perfect crooked grin at him.
“Hi, Tommy.” Newt replied, amusement in his voice.
“This stuff is disgusting.” Thomas raised his jar to show him, pulling a dramatic face.
Newt laughed and shook his, reaching for the jar. “And yet you’ve drunk half the bloody bottle. I think it’s time you quit for the night.”
Thomas frowned, pulling the jar close and wrapping his other hand protectively around it, “I’ve seen Minho down an entire jar in an evening an’ be totally fine.”
“That’s Minho, he can handle his liquor. You, on the other hand. . .less so.” Newt reached again for the jar and Thomas let him take it with a pout. He set it down on the opposite side of him, out of reach.
“’M not that drunk.”
“I saw you just a moment ago tell Frypan you could make a better stew than his. You challenged him to make some right now, until Minho grabbed you before you could get yourself punched and sat you down over here.”
“Mm,” Thomas replied noncommittally, having been distracted by counting the freckles on Newt’s face as his pale skin shone in the firelight from the bonfire that was beginning to dwindle. Lately, he’d been finding himself increasingly distracted by Newt. It was in the little things, like the way his hair ruffled in the breeze, or the way he laughed at a comment Minho made, or the way he smiled – god his smile. Like now, aimed at him, curved up into a grin, watching him watch him, his eyes dancing over his face. He swore he could feel prickles of warmth heating his skin as Newt looked at him.
“You alright, Tommy? You look a tad. . .dopey.” Newt asked, bringing Thomas back to center.
“Whaddya mean, dopey?” He asked, hearing his voice become defensive.
“You’re staring at me with a grin on your shucking face, it’s creepy.” Newt chuckled. “’N’ ‘sides, you look like you’re about to pass out, so I think it’s time you get to bed.”
He was adorable when he was protective of him, Thomas thought fleetingly, another smile tugging at his lips and a drunken chuckle escaping them.
“Will you walk me back?”
“I’d worry for you if I didn’t.” Newt rolled his eyes, and got to his feet. Thomas looked up at the hand outstretched and he took it, clinging tightly as he swayed, suddenly dizzy now he was on his feet. He leaned into Newt’s side as they stepped around the benches and exited the warmth of the bonfire. Faintly, he registered a whistle coming from behind them as Newt slipped an arm around his waist to keep him steady. He was warm, and Thomas couldn’t keep a smile off his face at the contact. He wanted more, now that they were well away from the fire and picking their way through small cabins to get to his own; and turned to bury his face in Newt’s shoulder.
He seemed to have forgotten, however, that they were walking. Seemed being on his feet was important but his brain couldn’t keep up, so he stumbled sideways, pushing into Newt far harder than he’d intended. Newt, in turn, lost his balance and they went crashing into the side of someone’s cabin. He heard Newt curse as Thomas fell blindly into him, all sorts of disoriented. He found himself pressed chest to chest against Newt, Newt’s back against the rough grain of a wooden wall and an arm still around his waist to keep him from falling. His face was tucked into Newt’s neck, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were. When he pulled back to look at him, Thomas’ stomach swooped with a feeling unlike any other. In the moonlight Newt’s pale skin glowed, and it felt like time stopped once he found himself focused on his lips and the way his tongue darted out to wet them.
His entire brain lit up with a single thought: he desperately wanted to see what kissing Newt felt like.
He rationalized his thought a moment later – who wouldn’t want to kiss Newt? He was beautiful and witty and everything anyone could want. Surely everyone else also wanted to kiss him senseless.
Ah, fuck it.
Thomas let himself lean back in, entirely missing the way Newt leaned up to meet him halfway as if he were expecting it, and then they were kissing. His heart took off like a rocket as he pressed himself more firmly against Newt and he heard him gasp against him and bring a hand up to the nape of his neck. Goosebumps prickled over his skin as Newt deepened the kiss and slid his other hand under his shirt, drawing a sharp gasp from Thomas. He could have sworn he felt Newt smirk into his lips, but that thought quickly vanished, replaced by the overwhelming intensity of the moment, and the sheer exhilaration he felt. He felt clear-headed for the first time that evening.
And then he hiccupped and broke the kiss; and was suddenly consumed with a fit of giggles. He tried to stifle it to no avail.
“You’re not even gonna ‘member this tomorrow.” Newt breathed into his ear. He sounded almost sad.
“Am too. Don’t think I could forget a kiss like that one.” Thomas replied, trying for equally as quietly, but ending up speaking above a whisper, still occasionally letting out a chuckle. He didn’t even know what was so funny anymore, only that he felt thrilled to be in Newt’s arms. It felt right, to be wrapped in him, to kiss him.
“We’ll see, Tommy.” Once again, he picked out the bittersweet tone in his accented whisper, but was quickly distracted by a pair of lips lingering on his temple.
Thomas found himself herded, then, to his cabin and into his bed despite protests that Newt stay. It wasn’t soon after Newt left that he quickly fell asleep, all thoughts save for one leaving his mind.
He kissed Newt, and loved it.
He awoke feeling like his head was splitting apart. Rolling onto his side nearly caused him to puke, sending his vision dancing and the world spinning. He groaned and closed his eyes, waiting for the room to stop spinning before venturing a look at his bedside table, hoping desperately he had some water. His mouth tasted like someone had died.
Just how much had he had to drink last night?
Oh thank god – a glass of water still half full sat on the table beside the bed. Thomas sat up slowly, then reached for the glass and sucked it dry. When he sat the glass down, he frowned, noticing he was still dressed from the night before. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, but he still had socks on, as well as the rest of his clothes. Instinctually, his hand reached up to graze the capsule beneath his shirt. He relaxed infinitesimally when he felt the familiar shape of the necklace. But why hadn’t he undressed? He didn’t usually sleep in his –
Oh.
Right.
Flashes of the night before played in his throbbing head. Being handed a jar of Gally’s concoction after dinner, when they all gathered around the bonfire. Yelling gleefully at Frypan that he could make a better stew. Being sat down next to Newt. Hanging onto him as if he were his lifeline when they got up to walk home. Stopping for some reason. . .to talk? No. He’d tripped and they’d fallen. Kissing Newt. His heart beating out of his chest. Warm fingers trailing up his side and into his hair. Never wanting it to stop.
“Fuck.” Thomas cursed quietly, head swirling with fuzzy memories of the night before.
Why had he kissed him?
Why had he wanted to?
What did it mean?
His next thought: Would it have felt the same if someone else had walked him back to his cabin? What if he’d kissed them instead? Surely if he only wanted to kiss Newt when he’s drunk as fuck, that didn’t mean he was into him – right?
Through reasoning even unknown to himself, Thomas had concocted a plan. He had to figure out if what he felt when kissing Newt had been something he felt only when drunk, or only when kissing him. He came to the conclusion that the only way to test his theory was to kiss Brenda. He knew – he knew it was a bad idea; taking advantage of her feelings for him only to figure himself out. To experiment, as it were. But he needed to know.
He had known Brenda had a crush on him for some time, but he’d chosen never to act on it. He could have, easily, but it didn’t feel quite right. What he felt towards her was immense love, but immense platonic love. But what if it wasn’t and that’s just what he thought? Maybe he didn’t know his own feelings. He also knew that she was the only one who wouldn’t immediately slap him if he asked to kiss her.
It all made some semblance of sense in his head.
Thus, one evening he got himself just tipsy enough to be brave, and settled next to Brenda by the fire. She looked over at him in surprise, still laughing from something Minho had said. The group was dwindling, given the time, and there was only a handful of people left scattered around the amphitheater. Minho sat next to Sonya, who had Harriet’s head resting in her lap, fingers trailing absently through her hair. Brenda sat a few feet away on the opposite side of Minho, and Thomas had joined them on the opposite side of her, so he was outside the immediate group. Once he sat down, his resolve wavered. What if he’d read everything all wrong? But he steeled himself, allowing the liquid courage to fill him up.
“Hey, Bren.”
“Hi, Thomas, fancy seeing you here.” Brenda teased. He could see she was just as tipsy as he was, if not more, and felt relieved. He’d picked the right night – it wasn’t often Brenda drank.
Thomas glanced over at Minho, Sonya, and Harriet. They seemed to have continued a conversation without Brenda, which was fine with him. “Could I talk to you for a sec?”
“’Course, what’s up?” Brenda’s wide grin faded slightly, now curious.
“Can we talk somewhere else? Private?” Thomas, suddenly feeling jittery and anxious. Did feeling anxious mean he was excited about what he thought was about to happen? He didn’t know. Better to just plow forward, not think about it too hard. That was how he functioned best, anyway.
Thomas was relieved when Brenda agreed, and the two of them walked some ways down the beach, out of sight of the rest of the Gladers lingering around the fire. They came to a log of driftwood that had washed ashore some time ago, half buried in the sand, and he sat down on it, gesturing for Brenda to sit beside him.
She sat, then looked over expectantly at him, waiting for him to say something. He met her gaze and gave her a small smile, his eyes flickering to her lips for a moment before returning. Her dark eyes were wide, eager, no longer the wary and defensive woman she’d been when they’d met. He had a good friend in her, and here he was about to ruin it. He was way overthinking this, and mentally shook himself off, reminding himself why he was doing it.
“I didn’t actually ask you out here to talk,” Thomas began quietly, “but I did want to ask you something.” He shifted closer, allowing his gaze to roam her face, lingering on her lips, heart rate ticking up a notch.
“Yeah?” Brenda followed his lead, leaning in as he did, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“I wanted to ask if I could. . .if I could kiss you.” He whispered, so close to her now he nudged her nose with his.
“Like you even have to ask, dumbass,” Brenda breathed as she rolled her eyes then closed the distance between them. A hand cupped his chin and Thomas let himself fall headfirst into the eager kiss. It was warm, soft, comfortable. And soon he found himself pulling her closer, actively wanting more. For a moment her touch drowned everything else out, the way she pressed into him, deepening the kiss with a quiet groan and a bite at his lip.
But something in the back of his mind registered as it not feeling quite right. He didn’t mind the kiss, obviously, but there was something missing that he couldn’t place.
Maybe it was because he’s not drunk enough. He was wasted when he kissed Newt. But he knew even further down, that if he needed to be drunk to kiss someone and enjoy it, did that mean he genuinely liked them? Or was that just the drink talking?
His experiment continued.
The next time he kissed Newt, he’s less drunk and more able to read the cues the older boy was throwing his way. A slight hesitation, before going all in. Body language telling him one thing; those lips telling him another. Like he wasn’t sure he wanted to believe what was happening.
Well, neither was Thomas.
Some days after his encounter with Brenda, and only an evening after he last kissed Newt, he found himself being frog-marched by a fuming Brenda into his cabin and sat on the bed, like a child about to be scolded.
“We need to talk.”
Thomas nodded, chewing at his bottom lip. He knew exactly what she wanted to talk about, and guilt flooded him.
“What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish with me? Hm?” Brenda asked, one foot tapping the floor as she stood and stared him down. He forced himself to meet her gaze, but stayed silent as she continued. “Do you have feelings for me? Because I’m pretty sure you know my stance on you.”
“I-” Thomas tried, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know,”
“You don’t know?” she asked incredulously. “Well, whether you know or not - you can’t just do that, Thomas. That’s called leading someone on, and it hurts.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Brenda - I. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Thomas scrubbed a hand down his face then through his hair. “You know me, you know I act without thinking.” When she nodded, he continued. “But that’s the thing - this time I’m actually thinking about it.”
“Thinking about what, Thomas? All you’ve done is kiss me silly out of nowhere, and then pretended it never happened the next day.” Brenda crossed her arms and sat down next to him. “I’m not mad, really – well, okay I was mad for a while. But now I’m just confused. Tell me what’s going on.”
He was grateful for her patience, and knew he didn’t deserve it. He deserved a slap in the face and told to do better, to not play with her emotions. But he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
"I’m trying to figure out. . . um, why I want to kiss someone, but only when I’m drunk.” He admitted haltingly.
“You mean in general, or someone specific?”
“Um. . .”
“Fantastic, you’re gonna make me guess who?” She quipped.
Thomas glanced guiltily at her. She didn’t meet his eyes but was instead looking down at his chest. It was then he realized he was playing with his necklace.
The letter. Newt’s letter.
It wasn’t a conscious action on his part, not anymore. It was a source of immense comfort to know it was always hanging around his neck, near his heart.
He stared, confused, as Brenda’s gaze cleared in recognition and she began to nod, as if to herself.
“What?” Thomas quickly dropped his hand back to the edge of the bed.
“It’s Newt.” Brenda replied.
A blush warmed Thomas’ cheeks before he could stop it, and Brenda smirked.
“So, you want to kiss Newt. But only when you’re drunk.”
Thomas tried to shrug nonchalantly, but she could read him too well. “Not only when you’re drunk.”
“No - well. . .” Thomas defended himself, entirely unsure why he felt defensive. Brenda raised her eyebrows in a silent question, gesturing for him to go on. Thomas let out a heavy sigh and fixed his gaze on the floor in front of him, suddenly embarrassed about what he was about to admit. “Yes, only when I’m drunk. But not. . .wanting to. I kind of already. . .did. Have been. Whatever.”
The back of Brenda’s hand landed with a sharp smack on his shoulder. “You kissed him?” She exclaimed, “You’ve just been going around kissing him, me, and not explaining a damn thing to anyone? God, Thomas-” Brenda shook her head in exasperation, “you’re a genius but dammit if you aren’t so fucking dumb sometimes.”
“Hey-!”
“How do you think Newt feels?” Brenda cut him off. “How do you think he feels, with you just kissing him out of nowhere, drunk off your ass, and then saying absolutely nothing to him about it?”
He hadn’t even considered how Newt must have been feeling if he was truly honest. He’d been so caught in his own internal crisis that he could only imagine how confused, not to mention hurt Newt must be. Thomas let his head fall into his hands with a groan, “He must hate me.”
“You need to talk to him.” Brenda replied. “But – actually, first, how do you feel with all of this?”
Thomas looked up, meeting her gaze. Confusion roiled in his chest. How did he feel?
“Okay, since I can see you’re a bit dumbstruck with this whole ‘considering your own feelings’ thing, let’s start with this: how much did you enjoy kissing him?”
Another blush heated his cheeks, and Brenda’s lips twitched into a grin. “I’ll check that off as: a lot.” Then her grin faded slightly, “What about compared to kissing me? Which is what I assume the whole point of your kiss-capade was about – figuring out what the fuck you’re feeling?”
“Right.” Thomas nodded, embarrassment growing. How Brenda was able to talk about it all so matter-of-factly and without even a hint of self-consciousness?
“So?”
“So what?”
“Compared to kissing me, how much did you enjoy Newt’s lips on yours, dumbass.” Brenda deadpanned.
“Oh.” Thomas shifted awkwardly. It felt weird to be talking about how much he liked kissing Brenda, with Brenda. But he pushed through his own discomfort since clearly, she wasn’t bothered by the conversation’s direction, and cleared his throat. “Um. I liked it, but there was something. . .different, with Newt. It felt more. . .right?”
Brenda nodded, as if his answer was one she’d expected. “You like him. In fact, I think you’ve liked him for a long time.”
Thomas stared at her, startled. “What do you mean? I just said-”
“I know what you said, but just because you first realized you wanted to kiss him when you were drunk doesn’t mean those feelings are gone when you’re not drunk. Drinking exacerbates feelings that’re already there, it doesn’t create ones out of thin air.” Brenda levelled a stare at him, and he had the distinct feeling of being scrutinized as if he were under a microscope. “Not to mention, you gravitate towards him when doing anything, really. You guys are practically already a couple, according to anyone’s standard on how you act around each other.”
Her last statement baffled Thomas even more than he already was. “What do you-”
“Every night around the amphitheater, I never see him more than six feet from you. He’s always looking at you, you know, when he thinks you can’t see him. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you guys have developed a sort of silent code between each other. Like you’re constantly checking if the other is okay with a tap on the wrist, or a glance, or a nod. I’ve seen you watch him rub his arm, as if you don’t dare to believe he’s truly cured. When you sit next to him, you’re touching in some way. Everyone’s noticed the way Newt completely relaxes around you, and the way he levels you out, stops you from spinning off and doing something rash before you can think about it. You ground each other.”
For a long moment, Thomas simply gaped at her, trying to absorb everything she’d just said about him and Newt. If he thought about it, he supposed she was right. Anywhere Newt was, Thomas wanted to go. Being around him felt perfectly comfortable, like coming home – even though he’d never really had a home before. Or couldn’t properly remember having one, anyway.
But Newt felt like his home.
And every day he would check, mostly unconsciously, to make sure that Newt’s forearm was clear and not spiderwebbed with black veins. Occasionally, he’d let himself run his fingers over it when he sat next to Newt in the evenings. He was never stopped, knowing Newt was feeling just as relieved to see clear, pale skin each day further they got from what almost happened. Had Minho not gotten back in time with the serum, had Teresa not come over the loudspeaker and told him exactly how he could save his best friend from going insane. From death. Had he had to read the contents of Newt’s letter to him while grieving over his death. Thomas wasn’t sure he would’ve survived, had Newt died in the Last City.
“I think I love him. I think I’m. . .in love with him.”
He didn’t realize it until the words were out of his mouth, but now he’d said it, Thomas knew there were no truer words. He loved Newt – not platonically like he’d previously thought, but romantically as his inebriated mind had been trying to tell him.
“You think?” Brenda snorted. She reached out and rested a hand on his knee, “I didn’t mean to force this realization out of you, but c’mon, Thomas. You can’t go around kissing your friends and not expect something to have to give eventually.”
Thomas found himself chuckling as Brenda cracked a grin at him. “You’re right.” He looked up, meeting her eyes, “I’m sorry for putting you through all this. I feel so stupid, and it wasn’t fair of me to lead you on like that.”
“You’re right, it wasn’t. But if I didn’t already know you were head over heels for Newt-” She gave him a light nudge with her elbow, “I’d be a lot more upset right now. But we’re good, Thomas. I’ll always be your friend, no matter the shit you put me through.”
“Thanks, Bren.” Thomas gave her a smile, feeling a rush of gratitude for his friend. He was glad to be surrounded by people he could rely on for help, even in the stupidest of situations.
“So. How are you gonna tell Newt about this profound realization of yours?” Brenda asked.
Thomas groaned through another laugh, “Give me a second, I’m still processing. I’ll tell him soon though.”
“Good, because if you don’t, I will.”
Long after Brenda had left, Thomas sat in the same spot on his bed, replaying what she’d said. It all seemed painfully obvious, now, that his feelings were decidedly anything but platonic.
He spent the afternoon mulling over how to approach Newt and tell him, well, everything. By the time dinner rolled around, he had it figured out.
“Hey,” Thomas nudged Newt lightly with his shoulder as they walked side by side after dinner to clean off their plates, “take a walk with me? I need to talk to you.”
Newt gave him an unsure look but agreed easily, nonetheless. After they washed their dishes and stacked them, Thomas led the way toward the beach, acutely aware of Brenda’s gaze following them out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over to see her wink at him and give him an encouraging smile. Once again, he felt a rush of gratitude and love for her. It couldn’t have been easy for her to let go of her own feelings for him once it became clear they weren’t reciprocated, especially after what he’d done, and proceed to spell out his own feelings he hadn’t even recognized until they were laid out in front of him.
Taking a similar path as he had several nights ago, they passed the driftwood log and walked further along until they came to a small cove lined with boulders and littered with driftwood. He turned, leaning against one of the largest of the boulders and looking out at the blood-orange sea. The sun was setting in a brilliant show of colors, and he took a moment to appreciate it before looking over at Newt who had settled beside him. He seemed anxious and Thomas felt guilt gnaw at his stomach. He was worried he wouldn’t accept what he had to say, and didn’t want to make things worse – but it had to be said. They’d walked on eggshells around each other long enough.
He let out a sigh and said softly, “Newt.”
Newt’s gaze whipped up to meet his, as if startled he’d said something, then his expression turned worried when he saw the seriousness of his own face. “What is it, Tommy? What do you have to say?” He sounded tired.
“I wanted to, um, apologize, actually.” Thomas started, feeling his cheeks begin to burn already. He hadn’t even said anything of significance, and he was already sweating bullets. God, he was a mess.
“What for?”
“For. . .not explaining myself.”
Confusion clouded Newt’s face, and he turned so he was leaning one shoulder against the boulder, now fully facing him. “You’re gonna have to say more than that, love.”
Thomas huffed a sigh, cringing at himself for being so inarticulate, and looked up from the sand to meet Newt’s golden-hued gaze. The setting sun reflected in his eyes, making them shine brilliantly and beautifully. He had to stop himself from getting lost in them, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Newt was still watching him, steady as ever. “Okay, um. I’m sorry for kissing you without any warning the other night. And the second time.” Thomas couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, and looked out along the shore as he spoke.
“What’s there to be sorry for?” Newt replied, voice forcibly light. “We were drunk, it doesn’t mean anything.”
Thomas could read clear as day how much it pained him to say that, knowing what he did now. But he was good at hiding it, covering up his vulnerability with a crooked grin.
“But it did.” Thomas found himself saying quietly, anything else he’d planned to say flying right out the window. “I mean – I didn’t think it did, at first. I thought because I was wasted I was just, I don’t know, trying to scratch an itch or something. But it-” he sighed, “it meant something. To me. And that’s what I brought you out here to say, I guess.” Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Newt’s afraid of what he would find in their depths. To his surprise, shock had taken over the blond’s expression. He rushed to continue, “I don’t want to assume anything on your part but I. . .I have some very strong feelings for you, Newt. And I don’t want to keep walking around not knowing what we are to each other, and not acting on it.”
Newt was silent for several moments, then to Thomas’ utter surprise, he began laughing. A deep, genuine, full-bodied laugh. Thomas chuckled uncertainly, unsure whether to feel rejected or relieved.
“Tommy,” Newt said once he regained his composure, “did you read the letter I wrote you before I Cranked out? The one you carry with you all the bloody time?”
“I – no?” Thomas replied, confused by the sudden turn in conversation. What did Newt’s letter have to do with their current topic? “Why. . .?” He asked hesitantly. He hadn’t read the letter because it had never felt like the right time to. He’d gotten close, just after their fight at the bus station while he was recovering by himself in his cabin and nobody would tell him anything about Newt. But he knew he was alive, at least, so the letter didn’t seem to matter as much as the fact that Newt was still living and breathing somewhere nearby. Over time, it had simply become a way for him to keep Newt close, even though he saw him several times a day. Maybe he kept it as more of a reminder of what had nearly happened. Of what didn’t happen. Of what he had to be grateful for.
“Why don’t you read it and find out.” Newt reached up and drew the capsule from underneath Thomas’ shirt, and he tried not to react to the brush of his fingers over his skin. He looked down, at the capsule now in his hands. For some reason, he felt nervous, or guilty, like he was about to read something he shouldn’t be.
His hands shook slightly as he unscrewed the cap and unrolled the papers inside, sucking in a breath at Newt’s handwriting on yellowed, ancient looking paper. The letter was addressed to him, and he found himself feeling almost reverent as he scanned the page, then started at the beginning and began to read in earnest.
Dear Thomas,
This is the first letter I remember writing. Obviously I don’t know if I wrote any before the maze.
. . .And I remember you. I remember the first time you came up in the box. Just a scared little Greenie who couldn’t remember his own name. But from that moment you ran into the maze I knew I would follow you anywhere.
. . .The future’s in your hands now, Tommy.
. . .Take care of everyone for me. And take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy. Thank you for being my friend. Goodbye, mate.
-Newt
By the time he finished reading the letter, tears were spilling down his cheeks and he reached out blindly, instinctually, to make certain Newt was still there. Really, physically, one hundred percent there. His hand collided with Newt’s and he gripped it tightly, still staring down at the note and struggling to control his emotions. He looked up after hearing a soft sniffle to see Newt’s eyes shining with tears that spilled over his bottom lashes when he met his gaze.
He smiled, then, and shook his head slightly, stepping closer with his hand still tightly around his own. “Do you understand now, Tommy? I’ll follow you anywhere, to the ends of the earth and back if I have to. I wrote that letter to convey what I felt for everyone, but mostly for you. I didn’t want you to forget me, but I wanted you to be able to move on – to find someone else worthy of you. But in the eventuality that I did make it out-” Newt gestured to himself with his free hand, “-as you can see, I’m standing right here; I wanted to make certain you knew. That you knew how I feel about you.”
A beat. Newt cleared his throat. Then, “But then you didn’t even buggin’ read it ‘til now, so.”
“It never felt like the right time.” Thomas replied, hearing the unsteadiness of his own voice. “Not with you being right here. I thought the letter might – might tell me something I didn’t want to hear.”
“Well did it?” Newt quirked an eyebrow up, relief emanating palpably off him.
Thomas smiled and shook his head, disentangling his hand from Newt’s momentarily to carefully re-roll the letter and put it back in the capsule where it belonged. He hung it, once again, around his neck and looked back up at the man looking so openly at him. Tears still laid tracks down his cheeks, but he was smiling. His hair glinted in the slowly fading sunlight, shining golden, and Thomas wanted nothing more than to run his hands through it. But he had an important question to ask first.
“To answer your question, I’ve got one of my own.” Thomas stepped closer, looking carefully, closely, at the man before him. Newt’s gaze never wavered from his and once again Thomas felt the same overwhelming rush of emotion in his gut he felt the very first night he’d kissed him. “Can I kiss you, for real this time?”
Newt’s smile widened immediately and without hesitation, they met halfway. Euphoria exploded through Thomas and he wrapped his arms around him, feeling Newt’s tug him in at his waist. Minutes later and entirely breathless, Thomas pulled slightly away to rest his forehead against Newt’s. He huffed a laugh, remembering suddenly, what it had taken to get them this far.
“Can’t believe it took a lecture from Brenda to get me to realize I’m in love with you.” Thomas breathed quietly without thinking.
“How’d Brenda get involved?” Newt asked, surprise tinging his voice.
“It’s a long story, I’ll tell you later.” Thomas replied, smiling.
Later. That used to be a luxury they’d kill for. To have time on their hands to tell stories and laugh about them? To be able to sit around a fire with people who’d become the only family he could ever want without worrying what was in the shadows, waiting to kill them, to manipulate them?
Later was something Thomas would never take for granted again.
Not even when, after the sun had gone down, he and Newt had returned to the amphitheater not bothering to hide the fact they were holding hands; Brenda told her side of the story, much to the utter delight of Minho who said he’d never live it down and he wanted to bury himself in a hole with embarrassment.
No, not even then.
Because then, later meant he was surrounded by people who cared for him, and whom he cared for so deeply it hurt. Later meant he got to laugh with his favorite people and have Newt pull him in for a kiss simply because he felt like it. Later meant he could go to sleep without worrying what he would wake up to, or where his next meal would come from. Later meant he could live out his life in peace, and in happiness, despite his past, and because of it.
And he wouldn’t trade it for the world, not for a second.