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Life in the safe haven was good. Peaceful, even. Thomas wasn’t used to it.
At first, the calm was unnerving. He would go to bed with pink crescent moons dug into his palms from clenching his fists and a pounding headache from gritting his teeth, perpetually on high alert. Surely this quiet could not last. He would peer out over the ocean, positive that a ship would appear on the horizon, coming to take them away again. He scoured the sky for helicopters. None came. At night he gasped awake, having dreamt of screaming and gunfire, and Newt pulled him to his chest and his heartbeat under Thomas’ ear lulled him back to sleep.
They were in love, but they didn’t have to say it. After the city fell, Thomas woke up in the med tent and Newt was sitting on the foot of his bed, looking like he hadn’t slept in days, and something had settled over the both of them then, like a blanket, like sunlight. They loved being alive; they loved being alive together. Newt slept with Thomas in the med tent that night and when he slid under the covers Thomas kissed him, and Newt kissed him back and trailed a finger, feather-light, over his gunshot wound, and that was that. There was no awkwardness, no waiting. They had waited long enough.
“We’re alive,” Newt said, into the quiet of the tent. “Can you believe it?”
“No,” Thomas said. “It doesn’t feel real. It feels like a trick.”
Newt kissed his knuckles. “Maybe it is,” he said. “Maybe it isn’t. I don’t care.”
Tents were erected all over the island, then huts made from branches and scrap metal. They reminded Thomas of the Glade. At first they were communal– ten people in each, at least– but the members of the safe haven had nothing but time now that they were no longer on the run, and homes were built quickly and efficiently. This’ll do for now , Vince would say, stepping back to admire his work on another hut tied together with fishing wire. It would. The island was warm, and storms were scarce. What broke was quickly repaired.
Thomas and Newt built themselves a hut on the far end of the beach, a comfortable distance from the place they had started calling the Center, where meetings were held around the campfire. Their home was shaded, tucked into the palms, with a view of the ocean unobstructed by the ship that had brought them here. Thomas hadn’t been in the Glade long enough to build anything, but Newt seemed to know everything– how to anchor branches into soft ground, how to weave twine between them to make sturdy walls, how to thatch a roof that wouldn’t collapse. Thomas watched his calloused hands work, listened to him explain the knots he was tying. They had a bed that was big enough for both of them, the mattress stuffed with straw and gull feathers. Newt found the primitive nature of their situation a little absurd.
“It’s like we’re Mesopotamians,” he said. He was sitting cross-legged on their bed, weaving a basket out of palm fronds. “The world ended, and now we have to start over completely.”
Thomas pondered this. He looked out the window they had carved from the branches, at the ocean, which was gray-green under the cloudy sky. The day before, Vince had taught them to catch fish with wooden spears, and all day he and Newt had splashed blindly in the water, stabbing at nothing and laughing when the other fell under the waves. Newt had caught a snapper by the tail fin, but he made Thomas gut it. Thomas understood. Newt had survived a knife to the chest, after all. They ate alone in their hut, and it was nice to have something all to themselves.
“True,” he said, finally. “But we have a one-up on the Mesopotamians.”
“What’s that?”
“They had no point of reference. We know where to go. We’re not starting from nothing, you know? We’re rebuilding.”
Newt looked at him strangely, then smiled. “Rebuilding.”
They spent many of their evenings around the fire, eating and laughing with their friends from the Glade, and from Aris’ maze, and the strangers from the Right Arm. They weren’t strangers for long. Many were older, Vince’s age and more, and some were married. Some had been here for a long time, living off the land in humble wooden shelters. Miraculously, one woman had a guitar, and when it got late and the conversation died down, she would play for them, singing pretty songs Thomas didn’t recognize. Newt would rest his head on Thomas’ shoulder, and Thomas would close his eyes, letting the music wash over him like a beautiful realization. It was a luxury to have time for such things. She sang about love and heartbreak and these were the things that mattered, now. Not running, not sickness, not staying alive.
She finished a song with a slow strum of a minor chord and I’ll keep them still and the people around them clapped and praised her enduring talent. The fire crackled.
“Love me like that,” Newt whispered. He traced the lines on Thomas’ palm.
“Like what?”
“Like the song. Like we’re the only people in the world.”
Thomas closed his hand around Newt’s and squeezed. “I do,” he said, warmth blossoming in his chest. “We are.”
Newt hid his grin in the crook of Thomas’ neck.
Weeks in the safe haven turned to months, and Thomas realized he had stopped looking over his shoulder for danger. The fingernail scars on his hands were healed over, just ghosts you couldn’t see unless you knew to look. The place where Janson’s bullet had torn through his flesh would never fully heal, but it wasn’t a wound anymore, just twisting pink scar tissue, mirrored on his back where the bullet had gone clean through. He woke up one morning to the thought that he couldn’t remember the last time he went this long without hearing gunshots. He kissed Newt awake to tell him.
“You’re right,” Newt said, his voice hoarse with sleep. He smiled and rubbed his eyes. “I think this is a record for you.”
Thomas stared at the thatched roof, listening to the waves outside. “Not for you, though.”
“True,” Newt said, “but the Glade wasn’t the same. We wished for guns there.”
“It’s funny,” said Thomas. “I feel like I was in there forever, but I didn’t live it like you did. Really, I was barely there at all.”
Newt turned his head on the pillow to look at him. He reached out a hand and stroked his face.
“I’m glad we got out,” he said, “obviously. But imagine the fun we could’ve had if you were there as long as I was.”
Thomas let himself picture it– him and Newt sneaking away during meals or meetings, stealing kisses when the other boys weren’t looking, drinking moonshine in the woods and watching the sun rise over the walls of the labyrinth. He felt almost robbed of the experience. He felt very old, like he had grown up in the span of a few seconds.
He smiled, somewhat sadly. “Yeah. Imagine.”
Six months had passed since their arrival, and the safe haven was no longer a refugee camp. It was a village, with a town hall, a chapel, and a schoolhouse for the children. It even had a library. The books were mostly yellowed and waterlogged, old favorites that people had packed when they first left home. Even though he had been sent to the Glade at just fifteen years old, Newt seemed to have an extensive knowledge of English literature. Brontë, Dickens, Austen, Hemingway. He and Thomas would peruse the shelves, and he would run his finger along the spines, stopping when he recognized a title. This one’s about love, he would say. This one too. Thomas blamed his own inferior knowledge of the literature on being American. He had Newt pick out his favorites, and they brought them back to their hut– which could barely be called a hut anymore, it was so well fortified– and read late into the night. Sometimes, exhausted from a long day of cutting down palm trees or giving blood or both, Thomas would collapse onto the bed and ask Newt to read to him. It was the accent, he decided, that made him keep asking. Newt sat on the bed with his knees pulled up, leaning against the uneven wall, and read in a soft voice. Thomas listened with closed eyes.
“ In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you .” It was a sweet story, of a world long dead. Thomas yearned for England, although he was sure he had never been.
They finished Pride and Prejudice, and then Romeo and Juliet, and then Anna Karenina, and the months passed quietly. It might have been winter, because of the frequent rain, but the island was never cold. Thomas and Newt spent much of their time by the water, on the part of the beach they could see from their window. Their skin was tanned, their hair long and curling in the humid air. Thomas thought perhaps Newt had never looked more beautiful than he did now. They were boys when they met, and now they were men.
It was late afternoon, almost sunset. Even in the shade of the palms, their room was sweltering. Thomas lay shirtless on their bed, sprawled across the sheets so none of his limbs would touch. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, and saw Newt silhouetted in the doorway.
“Darcy,” the blonde called. “Come out for a swim, will you? The ocean is cool from the rain.”
Thomas smiled at the nickname. He didn’t remember how it had started, but they had developed the habit of calling each other by the names of the characters from the romance novels they read. It confused their friends to no end. Why is Newt always the girl? Gally had asked, once, and Thomas had shrugged, a blush creeping to his face. Minho shoved Gally and said dude and when the realization dawned on Gally’s face, Newt broke down in a fit of giggles, and Frypan cackled, and Thomas buried his face in his hands in mock-embarrassment.
He peeled himself off the sheets, which were damp with sweat, and made his way to the door. Newt’s hair was dripping with seawater. When Thomas kissed him, his lips tasted of salt.
“Of course, Elizabeth,” he said, in an exaggerated English accent that always made Newt roll his eyes.
They walked to the water, slowly at first, and then picked up speed as they stumbled through the sand. They raced to the ocean, without ever really deciding to, and Thomas won. Newt still limped, even today. He let Newt push him under the waves. They were a jumble of limbs in the clear blue water, and then Thomas gasped to the surface, grinning. Newt flung water at him with both arms. Voices could be heard further down the beach– people preparing a meal, maybe, or starting the campfire. Fry would be there, and Gally, too. This is peace, Thomas thought: having the people you love always in your periphery.
He scooped Newt up by the waist and flung him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. Newt shrieked and kicked and warned don’t you bloody dare before Thomas threw him back into the water. He came up laughing. Rivulets of seawater cascaded down his face, his neck, his chest. Thomas pulled him up by his hair and kissed the salt from his mouth. Newt kissed him back, hard, draping his arms around his neck.
“Juliet,” Thomas murmured, gazing into Newt’s eyes.
The corner of Newt’s lip quirked up. “Yes?”
Thomas kissed his jaw. “Juliet,” he repeated, quietly. He trailed his lips down the soft skin of Newt’s neck. “Juliet.”
Newt sighed, barely audible over the sound of the waves. He gripped Thomas’ shoulders.
It never got old, Thomas thought: the way Newt’s body always melted into his touch, the little girlish noises he would try to bite back. This Newt was his alone. He was sweet and pretty and hot to the touch. Thomas pulled Newt’s hips against his own. Waves lapped at their waists, and they kissed slowly, deeply. They had all the time in the world.
The sky changed from blue to pink to orange as the sun sank behind the mountains. The sand was hot on their feet as they half-ran back to their house. Wet clothes were strewn across the floor, which was always sandy no matter how hard they tried to keep it clean. They didn’t bother drying off. Thomas pushed Newt down on the bed and climbed over him, pressing him down into the mattress with his hips. Newt brought his hands to either side of Thomas’ face and kissed him with an open mouth, and Thomas pushed his tongue past his lips. They shared a gasping breath.
Dusk settled over the island. It was still hot, even when the sun went down, so Thomas and Newt stayed on top of the sheets, naked and tangled at the ankles. In the morning Minho or Fry would bang on the door to wake them up, and they would grumble but eventually join their friends in the Center. Maybe they would work. Maybe Thomas would give more blood. Maybe Newt would plant new seeds. Or maybe they would do nothing, their favorite activity; maybe they would lie on the beach with their friends and talk about WCKD and the Glade like they were ghost stories. In a way, they were. There was nothing to fear anymore.
“I am the happiest creature in the world,” Newt whispered into the quiet of the night.
Thomas smiled into his pillow. “Go to sleep, Elizabeth.”
A seagull cried outside their window. Waves lapped gently against the shore. Under the light of the half-moon, in tents and huts and houses, the people of the safe haven slept. The ship loomed vacant in the water. They would never need it again.