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It’s quiet nights like these that make Thomas feel alone.
Like he’s the only star in the whole galaxy, aimlessly drifting about. A solitary flower petal drifting from a tree and landing on the fragile surface of a pond, away from its home and everything it once knew. Isolated. Left to rot.
Sometimes he prays for the world to slow around him, for the turbulence to cease for even a brief respite, just so he can catch his breath. But it doesn’t. It never will. The treadmill will keep running, the path will stretch for miles and miles on end, so he can’t even risk wasting a moment that possibly means life or death. But he can’t help but feel a little lost sometimes, like something akin to the confusion turmoil of emotions that raged through his mind the first day he was thrown into the Glade. Puzzled, terrified, adrift.
But a nagging question rests deep inside his mind, like a chained beast snarling behind the bars of its cage.
What if you fail?
All the sacrifices, all the pain and anguish, the tears and blood shed, it could all be for nothing. And suddenly, he feels the weight of the world crushing his back, an unbearable pressure like the unforgiving, mechanical limb of a Griever squashing him like a trivial pest. It chokes him, cruel hands wrapping around his throat and constricting his airpipe. He gasps for air, reaching out into the void for something, someone , anything –
His eyes fly open, hands grappling for purchase. Immediately, he scans the room, chest heaving.
Everyone’s sleeping. It’s quiet. They’re here. He’s here.
As he drags his gaze over the room, he wishes he could stop time at this very moment for the closure of knowing they would forever be safe. His eyes pan to where Brenda rests in her hammock, then Frypan who’s not too far, and Newt. His back is turned towards him, but he’s motionless, likely deep in slumber.
Something in his heart squeezes, stealing his breath for an abrupt moment. A nagging feeling, something he can’t quite put his finger on, tugging and pulling at his chest.
Cursing under his breath, Thomas slips away from his hammock and follows the distant echoing of crashing waves.
He clumsily stumbles out into the crisp night air and wanders for what feels like an eternity before realizing the breakers lapping at his shoes. Its spume climbs the sole of his feet, before retreating like a timid animal scurrying away. The white noise of the ocean calms his frazzled nerves, and he finds a suitable, albeit damp, log to sit on. Catching his breath, he lets out a shaky exhale.
To take the edge off his hysteria, he mindlessly rakes his fingers through the sand, creating overlapping hash patterns around his feet.
But the coiling feeling in his gut grows; it bubbles in his stomach, filling his chest, rising up his throat. Everything spills over as if it were water overflowing its cup– WICKED, Minho, the Maze, everything . He feels it constricting him like a snake, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until he snaps.
With a swift motion and guttural scream, he seizes a handful of sand and hurls it into the darkness of the water. He watches it disappear with a loud plunk , digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.
“Thomas?”
His name cuts through the thick, cool air like a knife. Immediately, he lets his hands relax and gathers the scant composure he has left.
Soft footsteps against the malleable sand, then a body bumping into his side. “You’re gonna wake everyone up with that ruckus, mate.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles quietly. They both sit on the log, legs and hips close, but not touching.
“So, you gonna tell me why you got up in the middle of the night to chuck sand at the ocean and scream your lungs out?” Newt asks, resting his elbows on his knees. When Thomas doesn’t respond immediately, he shoots him a look. A look that Thomas is too exhausted to decipher.
Slowly, his voice comes. “Why did you follow me?”
“Because I know you. You wouldn’t wander out here to sit by the ocean all secluded for no reason. Now, are you gonna answer my question, or do I gotta force it outta ya?”
“What… what if I fail? What if none of this works out?”
Newt shifts. “Don’t be like that, Tommy.”
“No, Newt, I’m serious,” Thomas urges, wetting his lips frantically before speaking again. “It’s– I just– sometimes I feel like I won’t be enough. I’m trying because I know I have to, f-for Minho, for all of them, but what if I can’t?” His voice comes out broken when he mutters the next few words, “What if we lose?”
“A lot of these concerns start with what if ’s. And that’s all they’ll ever be, okay? Just if. If . Not when, if .”
Thomas scoffs, “Well, then when .”
“There won’t be a when, Tommy. Unless you’re referring to ‘when will this all be over .’”
“For all we know, we could be dead when this is over!” Thomas exclaims, throwing his hands up exasperatedly.
“Why are you saying that? Thomas, what has gotten into you?”
“Newt, listen–”
“No, you listen to me.” The moonlight bounces off Newt’s face in a magnificent way Thomas doesn’t think he can ever forget. It illuminates all his features; the faint freckles dappled over his cheeks, his delicate eyelashes, the sea of emotions swirling in his deep hazel eyes. “You are the strongest, bravest, most resilient person I have ever met. And that says a lot considering I was stuck in the Maze for three years surviving off of rations with fifty other kids. Hell, we’d probably still be stuck in that hole if it weren’t for you. If there was one person who I knew could pull all of this off, it’d be you. It’d always be you.”
“Newt,” Thomas says, like an admonition. A warning.
The boy reaches for his hands; the icy winter meeting the summer’s warm embrace.
“I don’t care what happens, Thomas,” Newt whispers as if he were admitting a confession. His face softens in a way that makes Thomas’s heart bleed. “As long as I’m behind you, I know I’ve made the right choice.”
And maybe it’s his foggy mind, or the chill hanging in the air, or the way the moon puts a thin haze over the world, but suddenly every bone in Thomas’s body wants to kiss Newt.
So he does.
And, God , does it feel good.
Newt’s lips are soft with a slight chap, and their teeth knock together when he leans into the kiss. He tastes like the sea, like what Thomas imagines a field of wildflowers smells like, or maybe ambrosia designated for the divine. He feels like a sick addict, chasing the quickly fleeting feeling that numbs the world around him, pressing deeper, deeper, deeper, until he can fill the empty void in his chest.
And maybe, just maybe , if Thomas prays hard enough to whatever God resides in the welkin above, time will stop, and it’ll just be them. Together. Forever. Shaking and trembling like broken animals in each others’ arms.
When they part, Newt’s panting, eyes glazed over and unfocused. The realization finally dawns on Thomas, and he immediately feels mortified.
“Fuck, Newt,” Thomas stammers, releasing his hands. He runs his fingers through his hair, brushing the stray strands out of his eyes. “I’m sorry. Fuck , sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” Newt mutters.
“I don’t– I shouldn’t have done that, sorry.” Thomas stands up and begins to walk away.
Newt follows him, reaching for his shoulder. “Hey–”
He pulls it away callously. “No. No, just forget it.”
“Forget it? Are you kidding me?” Newt stammers. “You kiss me out of nowhere, and you’re just gonna blow me off like I’m nothing?”
And at that very moment, all the puzzle pieces in Thomas’s mind fall into place. The thought of building up a deep bond with Newt, only to have it all crashing down in the possibility of his death is too unbearable for Thomas. He can’t do this knowing the circumstance of extreme pain that comes as an inevitable risk. It’s for their own good.
“You’re not nothing , Newt!” Thomas shouts at a decibel too high for comfort. He turns around, facing the shocked expression on Newt’s face. “That’s the problem. You-you’re my best friend, you’re Newt , you’re everything to me. I don’t want to lose you, I can’t lose you .”
But Newt doesn’t yell back because of course he doesn’t. He’s understanding, calm, collected– he’s Newt , for God’s sake. “You have me, Thomas. I promise.”
And something in his mind screams his name, an endless mantra of please, please, please . His arms feel empty, his body feels cold, and his lips feel lonely.
He watches as Newt’s arms slowly spread apart, beckoning him into his warmth. The fragile promise of solace, an offering of comfort. You have me.
Thomas melts in his arms like ice.