Chapter Text
Thomas turns the jar in his hands, focusing on the way the firelight reflects on the brew. He clears his throat, swallowing down on a thought. He finally forces the words out from his chest. “Do you ever think about where you came from?” He waits in the silence for all of three seconds before he finally looks up.
Newt is looking at him with a quirked brow and a tilted smile. “What, are you joking?” A small laugh expels from his smile.
“What?” Thomas asks, barely above a whisper. His stomach twists. “Is that a stupid question?”
Newt blinks a few times and shifts his gaze with a tilt of his head. “I mean… I wouldn’t say stupid, necessarily.”
Thomas pulls his gaze away and looks back at the brew. “Gee, really great at making the new guy feel like it’s okay to ask questions.”
Newt’s laugh comes louder this time, a hitched thing that jumps around between them. “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh.” He clears his throat to stop, and then adds, “or call you stupid.”
Thomas nods.
“I just mean, well, none of us have a memory from before the box, do we?”
“No, I know. I guess there’s no point in–”
“So, naturally, we all tend to make it up.”
Thomas blinks and then looks back up at Newt.
Newt smiles. “Yeah, we err,” he shrugs, “just sort of make things up, y’know? Like, Alby says he was a pirate in a past life. Quite convinced he was a hell of a swordsman but between you and me he doesn’t have the reflexes to save his life.”
Thomas’ mouth twists in a small smile.
Newt clears his throat. “Let’s see. Gally is an athlete. Baseball, I think he said. Maybe rugby. Don’t quite remember which he insisted upon.”
Thomas glances back to where Gally is encouraging the others to join him in fighting in the center ring. “Wrestling, maybe,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, maybe,” Newt laughs.
“What about you?” Thomas asks.
“Me?” Newt asks, brows perking up. “Oh, nothing nearly as exciting. I like to think maybe I just did something normal, you know? Had a boring life with a good family, maybe a sibling. Some nice friends with me, just something where I get to experience mundane things, you know? Not the crazy of this,” he gestures around them.
Thomas nods. He gets it, really. Their life in the Glade doesn’t feel chaotic, but they’re trapped. There’s the pressure of the unknown, the fear of the Grievers, the confusion of the Maze. There has to be a life out there that’s easier, much simpler. Something just… typical.
“I’d like a life where I have something better to drink than this, for sure,” New laughs and knocks a knuckle against the jar in Thomas’ hands.
Thomas feels the knock echo through the glass and vibrate through his fingers, down the small metacarpal bones of his hand and past his wrist, all the way up his arm and then it seeps out across his chest, snaking over his ribs and then finally sinks itself there against his heart. A simple, single knock against it. As if to say, hello, I’m here. It’s me.
Thomas wants to ask who it is, who’s knocking, but something tells him he ought to remember. Like he already knows. Like he’s felt this knock before.