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It's the dreams that come haunting him.
Thomas can never make out their faces, but he knows who they are. He recognizes their screams, their voices so close but so blurred— like he has finally forgotten what they really sounded like.
Teresa. Chuck. Alby. Newt.
They taunt him. Their last moments replayed every single night. Thomas is helpless. A coward, standing off to the side, glued to the floor and doing absolutely nothing to stop what he knows is inevitable.
Screams and shouts leave their mouths, and they sound like nothing in his brain. Like echoes in a dense forest. But he knows they're asking for help. They're asking for his help. And he fails them again and again, every single night.
Those are the ones that leave him drenched in cold sweat when he wakes up. Sometimes he screams and only realizes by the time the others have gotten up to console him, whispering useless phrases like “ You're okay, we’re okay. It wasn't real.” But it was, once.
There are a few, in those spare occasional nights where he finally gets some peace from the replaying deaths of his friends, that are actually pleasant.
He dreams of Chuck, back in the glade. His giddy, still childlike demeanor and pestering talks that he used to find mildly irritating on the best of days. How at some point, Thomas had realized he saw Chuck as his little brother. He has no one to compare it to, no actual siblings or other relatives, but he knows that nothing else could describe what they have.
He dreams of Teresa, and how they were once something akin to family, too. That, even though he couldn't quite remember, he still felt it deep within him. Something more than a sister, like they were cut from the same cloth. Those scarce moments of happiness that he can still recall, before she betrayed them all.
He dreams of Newt. He sees thick, golden hair, brown eyes and slender arms that somehow held such a firm grip around him. He sees quiet moments, heartfelt ones, just the two of them. How sometimes, their hands would link together and neither of them would let go.
Newt would whisper to him then, but Thomas doesn't hear the words. He doesn't see the smile on Newts face that he knows is there, doesn't actually feel the squeeze of his hand, nor the warmth. By the time he wakes up, he’s back on the beach, in his hammock, cold and alone.
And he has decided that the good ones, the pleasant ones, are the worst. He wakes up feeling empty, like a major organ of his has gone missing. It's grieving, he thinks. He’s been grieving for a while. Silently, and without tears. Somewhere in the past few months his intense sadness, anger and resentment against long dead people and himself have turned into nothing more but numbness.
He's useless on those days. He doesn't want to talk to anyone and barely manages to eat. He only gets out his hammock because he needs something to take his mind off things. But his body refuses to do any actual work. It’s contradicting in that way, because he desperately wishes for something to do, but his mind wants to do absolutely nothing but let him rot away and drown in his miserable thoughts.
So, although most people give him space (by leaving him alone), they try to give him smaller tasks that he can do with little effort. He knows they're pitying him. But how can he be mad? In truth, all of them are, in some ways, going through the same thing.
He knows Minho is. Days where he's just not really in shape, mentally. But he tries, and oftentimes than not gets frustrated at himself. Thomas knows the guy is trying to stay strong, but he also knows that they're still kids. Kids who went through all this shit, watched their friends die, the promise of saving the world looming over their heads, and what was the point of it all, really? All that suffering for a cure that could've never existed?
And now, they're supposed to be safe. But the maze will never leave him. What WICKED did will never leave him. Newt, Chuck, Teresa. Repeated over and over like a mantra.
He just somehow has to go on. Although part of him wants to give up. On those few, very bad nights, he thinks about just ending it. Joining the others. But how ridiculous is that? How can he leave the others alone, after all this? It's such a selfish thought that he starts to hate himself for even thinking it. But it always creeps its way back into his mind.
Today seems like one of those days. Thomas wakes up after a pleasant dream about golden hair, the faint smell of mint and sneaky touches with dread seemingly opening up like a pool in his chest. He’s greeted with nothing but quiet darkness.
He lays there for an indefinite amount of time, staring at the cloth that shields them like a tent. He doesn't want to think about anything. But he can't really control his wandering thoughts that are always going to the past, trying to grasp a face he can no longer remember, a face he used to love so much. Would still love like his life depended on it, could he ever see it again.
And, like always, he remembers that he can't. He will never see Newt again. He has no pictures, no recordings, no evidence other than the letter he now keeps in a vial around his neck at all times, always scared he could somehow misplace it and lose it forever. It's the only thing he has left, the only thing that has Newt's touch on it. His chest suddenly aches in a way so terrible as he grabs the vial through his shirt, his grip tightening until the palm of his hand hurts.
His eyes burn, and he blinks and blinks but his vision only gets blurrier. He swallows and looks around to the sleeping faces he can barely make out in the blue light of the early morning. Silently, he gets up.
He doesn't put on any shoes or bothers to take a jacket with him. The sand is cold but soft beneath his feet, and like they know nothing else, take him to a little corner near the shore. Between a few trees and on top of a patch of soft green grass, away from anyone's useless words and pitying looks, Thomas finally sits down.
He’s freezing now. The wind is harsher where he’s seated and he can't do anything but pull his legs up to his chest and sort of curl up into himself. He can't really say he cares. He isn't thinking about the wind, or if he'd potentially catch a cold, or whether or not his foot just touched a worm where he dug it into the sand.
His eyes fixate on his feet, watching his toes hide underneath the sand, kicking it up when they resurface. Over and over again, his mind spirals down a never ending cycle of memories that slip further away each day.
Golden hair. Brown eyes that seemed to hold the stars in them. The faint smell of mint. A laugh where, when he first heard it, he’d thought perhaps everything would be alright, as long as he was alive and allowed to listen to it. The way Newt would chew on his nails when he was deep in thought. How he’d always somehow read Thomas’ mind. Touches that lingered too long, fingers that itched to explore parts they felt they weren't allowed to. Words that he actually cared about. Useless bickering. Freckles. Dimples. Warmth. Newt. Newt. Newt .
And he feels so much regret . Because by the time he realized what it all meant to him, he had believed there was no time. They'd be alone, and he’d think not now, there's a better time , because he was naive enough to think that of course they'd both make it. How stupid. How fucking stupid. They were in the midst of fighting for their lives, and he was supposed to be the brave one. How much of a coward had he actually been? No, not now. No, I can't bother him. No, it doesn't matter.
And wasn't he always the reckless one? The one who had insane plans that made everyone think he must be crazy? The one who always did everything on impulse, without much thought about what it would cause?
Newt had written that he'd go back and not change a thing. Thomas doesn't understand, because if he had the chance, he'd change everything. He’d make sure none of them died. He’d stop being a fucking coward and confess his goddamn feelings and no matter the outcome, he'd not be left to regret the never.
It’s an awful sort of feeling, always regretting the things he didn't do, and the question of what if? And the fact that he just can't let go. He can't allow himself a moment of happiness without thinking that everything, he shouldn't be the one alive and laughing. He shouldn't be allowed this, not while his friends died for nothing. Chuck was too young, Teresa too bright, Newt too precious .
But what had Thomas done? He may have survived, but he drove all of them to their doom. Part of him already died alongside Newt. A part he will never, ever get back. He thinks it must be haunting him. Newt must be haunting him.
Thomas sees him in the way the sun dips over the mountains in the distance at the end of the day. Sees him in the meadow that spreads around them. Sees him in that one white lamb because her brown spots stupidly remind him of those dark freckles that kissed Newts skin everywhere. Sees him in greens, yellows, browns.
Everywhere he turns, everywhere he looks, Newt is staring back at him. Thomas thinks it might drive him insane, if it hasn't already. He isn't sure whether or not he should be upset. Sure, there is something so devastating about always, always thinking of him, but there is also something comforting about it. Like despite the memories fading, Newt hasn't, and will never, truly leave him.
Before he realizes it, Thomas is sobbing. His face is buried into his knees and all he can hear are his own, pathetic whimpers and wails. At some point his head starts to pound like he's being hit with a hammer repeatedly, and his lungs don't seem to be getting enough air in them. He must be choking. Choking on his own miserable tears.
The funny thing about crying is that it never makes anything better. People have told him that it's okay to cry it all out, that it helps, but he thinks that's some sort of terrible joke. When he finally stops, after what must've been an eternity, he only feels a slight bit of relief. His face is all wet and his head hurts and the pit in his stomach is not any less empty. Crying doesn't make his problems go away, and perhaps that's why he had abandoned it. But he supposes you can only hold back your emotions for so long before it all comes crashing down on you like a wave. It pulls him back into that deep darkness he had pretended to be free of.
When he wipes his face, both of his sleeves are immediately soaked. His eyes hurt when he rubs them, and he's suddenly so very tired. A shuddering sigh escapes him as he falls back onto the grass. The sun is out now, peeking through the gaps between the leaves above him, making spots dance on his stomach.
Thomas thinks Newt would've loved this spot. It's eerily similar to waking up in the glade, with the sun shyly greeting you from between the trees, (if you were lucky enough to get a sleeping spot there, that is.)
It could've been theirs. They'd sneak off and act like the others don't already know where they'd go, lay down and just do anything they wanted to. Talk or sit in perfect silence (because Newt never had to actually say or do anything to be good company,) or actually allow themselves to touch and feel. Thomas had always liked how warm Newt felt against him, during their not so brief but never talked about touches.
He closes his eyes and tries to imagine it, to let himself slip into that blissful reality, despite how sick he’ll feel later. But Newt appears in his mind with no face, no voice, no warmth, and then he's angry at himself and the world and perhaps, stupidly, a little at Newt.
Thomas is keenly aware that none of it is anyone's fault, and that he might as well get mad at the goddamn sun for those sun flares and the borderline end of the world. And he’s also aware that he's been over this many times before. Blaming himself, the world, the people around him, just to try and justify what happened. He could blame WICKED. They put Newt out there, knowing he wasn't immune, with absolutely zero chance. It's like they spit and laughed in all their faces, saying, “Too bad, your friend will die. There's nothing you can do.”
He’s so tired. Tired of crying and feeling and loving so strongly he wishes he could rip his heart out of his chest. He wants to go back to when nothing mattered. Not shortly after Newt's death, where numbness ate him alive and he was but a walking husk of the person he used to be.
Or perhaps further, back when he first appeared in the glade. He’d avoid Newt. Never get too close, never feel or touch too much, never hope, never fuck up.
But time can't reverse itself. And who is he kidding? He’d love Newt regardless. His eyes would always find him, and Newt's eyes would stare right back at him every time, just like they always had. He'd touch and he'd feel shamelessly and without fear, because he'd know there is never a better time. There's here and now and the moments can be so short and fleeting, they shouldn't have gone wasted.
He squints at the leaves when the sun suddenly hits his eyes directly at that specific angle, hears the birds finally start to sing and distantly he can now make out faint voices of those starting their morning.
Newt had found him, picked him apart along the way. Thomas doesn't know how to put himself back together. He's so terribly scattered, he’s never going to find all the pieces. He’s never going to escape his dreams, the same way he’ll never be able to catch a hint of mint without his eyes stinging because that used to be Newt’s scent.
But he's alive. He's breathing, and he’s healthy. Newt would think that's enough.
Thomas will never, ever agree.