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“What the hell-” Thomas muttered as Newt pulled off the stained red, torn piece of cloth that was once a shirt. Newt threw it on the ground. He sighed, his tired eyes reaching out for the brunet.
Thomas’ eyes fell onto his friend’s exposed, fit body, once beautifully full of freckles, but now all he could see was a deep, long cut coming from his left shoulder to the middle of his chest, tearing what was once soft skin, — the scarlet color of blood stained it, making its way out, begging to come to its stop.
It wasn’t enough blood to reach a point where Newt would be weak or faint but, still, the wound would certainly leave a long, dark scar, Thomas thought.
And he felt awful about it. He wanted to rip his own skin out so it would match Newt’s.
Not that it would fix anything.
Thomas wanted to scream.
“Don’t worry about it.” Newt responded, sitting on a chair at the table next to them. The bloody stained shirt was on the floor to his right, and the long forgotten jacket on the table.
Thomas caught the annoyed tone in the blond’s voice, as if Newt really didn’t want to do anything about it, but he also catched the way Newt had difficulty to sit down, trying to hide his groan, caused by the pain he surely felt. And Thomas just observed for a moment, his fingers itching to hold his best friend.
The mere lightning on the ceiling of the room shimmered down at Newt’s head and body. The golden hair was effortlessly, loosely tied into a small bun, just above the nape of his neck, some stubborn strands sticking out of it and falling over his sharp face.
Newt’s body leaned against the chair. His legs, being covered by his brown, dirty pants, were thrown forward. Thomas noticed how Newt was unsure of running his right hand’s fingers over the big bruise on his exposed chest, head down looking at it. He noticed how his left arm looked numb.
Thomas lifted his head, a sickening feeling growing in his stomach, and looked back to the door, looking for someone else, any way of help.
He wondered how he and Newt ended up alone in the room, or where everybody was, or how Newt hadn’t brought up the cut on his body yet. When did he even get that? Why did he stay silent? Thomas sighed.
“No, Newt. You’re not doing this.” The brunet ordered, trying to ignore the flinches in his stomach as he glanced at Newt’s bare torso.
“What?” Newt looked up, just for his dark eyes to meet Thomas’, his brows furrowed a bit.
“You can’t just ignore it.” It was as if he was stating the obvious.
“I can.”
“I won’t let you.” Thomas said impatiently, crossing his arms. He waited for Newt to say something but, seeing that he wasn’t going to, he continued. “I’ll see if that girl Brenda or someone has any aid kits we can use.”
And with that, Thomas turned around and walked towards the door. He didn’t want to think about the urge he felt to scream at Newt for hiding that horrendous cut, or the urge he felt to run back to the chair and hold the blond, take care of him, run his fingers over his hair and body until the open bruise was just an ugly scar.
He just added as he left the room: “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
Just about five minutes later, Thomas passed through the doorless arch at the entrance to the room, a little white box in his hands.
He made his way back clumsily and dropped the box on the table, opening it and seeing which supplies he had to work with.
Feeling extremely grateful for how helpful Jorge was for giving him that aid kit, and for the fact that neither Minho, Frypan nor Teresa had decided to go back to check on Newt — mostly because Thomas begged for them not to, he felt a sudden necessity to take care of the blond himself, — he took out a roll of adhesive tape, a pack of big gauze pads, some cotton balls, little scissors and a bottle that seemed to be of alcohol from inside the box. They all seemed old, giving by the way the white box looked a bit worn out, but the gauze pads and cotton balls seemed decent and clean enough.
Thomas peeked a glance back at Newt, who was quietly sitting in his chair, observing him prepare all the materials. He noticed how the tips of Newt’s lean fingers were stained in red, he sighed.
“Don’t touch that with your dirty hands.”
“Sorry.” The way Newt mumbled in response made Thomas feel bad. He stared at the open wound. It looked like an ugly beast crawling out of Newt.
Thomas pulled another chair close and sat beside the blond.
“Does it hurt?” Was all he was able to ask, because he didn’t want to bring up the fact Newt hadn’t told anyone before. He knew his best friend and was very aware of how he communicated, sometimes even lacking that. And, God, Winston had just died . He imagined the blond didn’t want to give them any other bad news, he understood that.
Newt looked up at him, confusion in his face.
“Tommy, what kind of question?-”
“Just answer me.”
Newt sighed, looking down. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, that fell stupidly on his lap. “I’ll survive.”
“Not what I asked.”
Newt threw his head up, frustrated. “Fine, it doesn’t hurt that much now, but I bet it will when you put whatever that is in it.” His accent played with the words.
Thomas didn’t understand what Newt was talking about for a second, but then he realized as he looked back to the bottle on the table.
“It’s alcohol, and I have to clean it so it doesn’t get infected.” He reached out and grabbed a few cotton balls and the small bottle from the table, opening it and soaking a bit of the strong scented liquid in the white fluffy cotton.
He waited for Newt’s signal to start cleaning the cut. He watched Newt’s features relax as he sighed and closed his eyes.
“Okay, do what you gotta do.” And his pink lips turned into a thin line as he waited.
Thomas leaned in, putting his free hand on Newt’s arm and gently touching the cotton pad filled with alcohol at the edges of the cut on Newt’s chest. He felt the cold sensation of it kiss his fingertips, and couldn’t imagine the stings of pain the blond must have been feeling.
Still, Newt kept his eyes and mouth shut, and Thomas watched the freckles on his body move softly around his touch.
He stole a look over Newt’s relaxed face, watching his long blond eyelashes flicker a few times. He saw the skin between his eyebrows twist. He heard a small groan come out of his lips when he pressed the cotton on a particular spot of exposed blood.
“Sorry.” Thomas said, quickly taking off the cotton from his skin once he noticed he had hurt Newt, cursing himself internally for it.
“It’s okay.” Newt opened his eyes, a soft look taking over him. He reached out, he grabbed the brunet’s wrist, he put it over his chest. “Just… be careful.” And Thomas froze.
He felt his own skin tingle under the blond’s touch, his heart skip a beat under Newt’s sweet eyes. He looked away, and his eyes fell over the way Newt’s bicep stood out when he was shirtless.
The heavy silence in the room was only broken thanks to him swallowing. The place suddenly felt hot.
“I’ll make this quick.” How did Thomas manage to emit such words, he would never know.
The following minutes consisted of silence, where Thomas cleaned the blood that was starting to dry on Newt’s pale, once flawless skin. He tried his best to not put too much strength while working on top of the actual cut, but still heard some whispered groaning coming from the blond. Thomas thought of saying sorry every time he heard it, or every time he felt the body under his hand flinch, but he came to the conclusion it was best to stay quiet.
After the cleaning was done, he decided it was best to cover the bruise before Newt could claim another dirty t-shirt as his own.
So, as Newt was recollecting his strengths to get up, Thomas was quicker. He got up first and forced Newt’s shoulder down, pinning him against the chair.
“I’m not finished.” He said, but he was too nervous to keep himself steady at that position where he was practically holding Newt down, the latter looking up at him in disbelief. So, Thomas turned around to grab the stuff on the table.
“Sorry, dad .” Newt smirked. But the brunet didn’t see that. He huffed in response, still working on the gauze pads.
Thomas used the scissors to cut a special long piece of the material, long enough so it would cover all the damage in Newt’s chest. He also cut several pieces of the tape, spreading them around on his fingers so he could grab each separately.
He looked at the bare, hurt skin. He sighed. He didn’t know much about what to do, but it had to work.
He tried to ignore Newt’s eyes on him as he leaned in again and began to cover the now cleaned wound — it didn’t have those dried blood stains anymore. Tried to ignore the warmth that seemed to radiate from him.
Thomas hated heat. God, how he had learned to hate it thanks to the Scorch.
But it became clear to him, in that moment, that any heat coming from Newt was very welcome. How he even praised for it.
The long piece of gauze, once completely attached to Newt’s torso, began from the middle of his chest and came up to just about the curve of his left shoulder, at the beginning of his back.
Newt, still sitting on the chair, turned his neck up, to his left — where Thomas was standing next to him, putting down the last piece of tape to fully finish his work.
And Thomas felt the chocolate eyes on him once again. He could feel some stubborn pieces of blond hair reaching out for his hand, tickling him.
His hands dropped on Newt’s shoulders, his fingertips feeling the exposed, warm soft skin on the right, and the gauze material on the left.
He felt the body below him relax to his touch.
So, it was kind of automatic, but he began to massage Newt’s muscular shoulders — and, oh , how Thomas noticed that particular feature — and neck.
Thomas’ fingers kept a tight grip on the skin, making circular movements as he touched all its length, counting each golden freckle that lived there. It felt firm, but smooth. It felt familiar. His fingers, holding onto Newt, were the only thing making him stay in reality.
Because Thomas wanted to let go of everything and just bury his face into the warm curve of Newt’s neck, make of it his home.
And what was scary was that the feeling didn’t scare him at all.
After tightening his grip on a specific rough, tense spot just around the beginning of Newt’s back, Thomas’ ears were gifted once again with one of those deep throat groans. Newt laid his head on Thomas’ stomach and, in that position, the latter could see the blond lashes flickering again.
The golden hair tickled his skin, through the thin fabric of his own shirt.
“Argh, that feels nice.” Newt said. The upside down pink lips curved into a small, innocent grin.
Thomas thought he was about to faint. But his hands never left Newt’s exposed shoulders.
“Hm?”
“No one’s ever done that to me before.”
“What, massaging your back?” He pressed his fingers on another particularly tense spot.
How was he even keeping up to a bare conversation, he would never know, because his thoughts were completely drowned and focused on Newt’s little noises of pleasure. Thomas updated his mental list of best things that ever came out of Newt’s mouth.
“Yes- Hm, do that again.”
“Here?” He gripped the skin again. His lips suddenly felt dry.
“Yeah, right there.”
Thomas observed Newt melt in the chair, getting more comfortable. He saw — better, he listened once again — Newt sighting, Newt blinking.
His hands kept him stable, because, God, how could someone be so lucky to witness such a view? Thomas wondered if he had ever felt this lucky, this warm in his life — sure, he didn’t remember much about his life before the Glade but, still, he was very sure nothing could ever be compared to that moment.
Because Newt was so… breathtaking. That was the best way to describe him, or at least the best word Thomas could think of at that moment.
Newt was stretched over the old wooden chair. His long, lean legs spread around and got to the floor with no effort. His torso, even with the big, long bandage covering half of his chest and left shoulder, looked like it belonged to a perfect being — an angel, perhaps. His curves and muscles, spectacularly sculpted, gave him the looks of a divine thing.
And his skin , so soothing, so warm, full of golden dots that seemed to pop out, made Thomas want to reach out and hug him, be forever embraced to his temperature.
Newt didn’t have much body hair, but Thomas didn’t let the small amount of blond pelage just under his belly button slip away from his eyes.
At that thought — at that sight, — Thomas decided it was best not to focus on it, or else he would certainly lose it.
So, when sensing another tense spot on the blond’s right shoulder, he decided to speak. “Jesus, Newt, your shoulders feel like rocks.”
“I bet yours are just as bad.” Newt said, so simply, so effortlessly, that Thomas wondered if all that tension was just in his own imagination, and in reality, that was just another normal interaction for Newt. Surely it wasn't, right? At least it didn’t seem casual, considering he just told Thomas that no one had ever massaged him. So that made Thomas- “Actually, let me-”
“What?”
And before he could react, Newt stood up.
He stood up — his knees creaking by the movement, — and pushed the chair aside with his leg. Then, he stood facing Thomas, the considerable amount of inches that made him taller stood out due to the position, and his eyes, his gorgeous, big dark eyes that could make Thomas do stuff with no effort looked down at him with consolation, delicately.
His hands found Thomas' shoulders.
And there, right in that moment, all of Thomas’ senses focused on Newt’s fingers and Newt’s fingers only. On how he tried to grip his skin over his shirt, mirroring the same movements Thomas was doing on him moments ago, but facing Thomas .
And that by itself made his heart stop. Could it ever function again? Probably not.
Because Thomas could see Newt. Could see his focused look and see the mere curve in his eyebrows, his eyes squinted a bit. Could see how he bit his bottom lip, concentrated on massaging his shoulders.
It’s not very difficult to assume Thomas decided not to look at the pink skin being bitten for his own sake. So his eyes tracked down.
But he soon found out it wasn’t a good idea, because they landed on the bandage on Newt’s torso, on Newt’s exposed chest. Since when was he so out of himself?
The best decision he could make was to close his eyes. So he did. And he focused on Newt’s fingers, massaging him.
The weight of the lean, warm fingers on his sides was astonishing. The pressure, the circle movements were extraordinarily relaxing.
“Is it good?” The blond breathed into his ear, his voice so husky, and Thomas felt the short hair of his neck stand up. He felt his whole body shiver with Newt’s breath on his skin. He couldn’t see the boy, his eyes still closed, but he could feel Newt right there, inches away.
“Yes-“ Thomas began, but Newt squeezed a particularly tense spot on his shoulder, and the action seemed to spread bolts of electricity down his body. “Urgh, it hurts there.”
“You’re tense as well.”
Thomas opened his eyes, letting them take their time to get used to the sight once more. Newt still bit his lip slightly, his upper teeth showing a bit. His dark doe eyes found Thomas’, and they didn’t look away.
If silence could be heard, it would have exploded the brunet’s eardrums a long time ago.
His whole body felt numb, like he was in some parallel universe, waiting to return to reality, waiting for some action from the blond. The only two things making him steady were his dirty shoes on the cold floor and Newt’s warm hands gripping his shirt, never stopping the circular movements.
And Newt’s eyes . So close Thomas could lean in just a little bit and bat their eyelashes together. His eyes looked at him with feelings just behind those dark irises Thomas could almost reach. Almost unravel.
The intensity of those eyes made him at ease.
And he noticed, once again, how the room was very hot.
“You’re blushing.” The words came out from those soft looking pink lips as waves break on the sand.
The hands on his shoulders never stopped untangling the knots under his skin. One circle, two circles. There were constant movements, a pattern, and Thomas was starting to lose the feeling of his own shoulders when he answered, a broken, shy laugh coming from his nose: “It’s kinda hard not to when you look at me like that.”
A second. A heartbeat.
And the hands stopped moving on his shoulders.
But Thomas didn’t look at them, he didn’t care about them. Because all he could see was Newt, and the way his lips were parted, no words left to be said, and the way his eyes stopped, then flickered between Thomas’, revealing shock.
All Thomas could feel was his own tangled tongue, still recovering from the words he just said and didn’t know where they had come from. His fuzzy head, his tingling skin, suddenly very aware of how close their bodies were.
Good job, Thomas. Now you have ruined everything. How could you just throw that out of nowhere? Now Newt is probably assuming the worst, that you’re crazy about him, that you’re a pathetic piece of shit who can’t control your Goddamn face, that you-
“Tommy?” A breath, and Newt licked his bottom lip.
His hands slipped down, grabbing the brunet’s arms softly.
“Hm?”
And Newt leans in, so carefully, taking in all the dirty and flustered details on Thomas’ face. Breathing and not breathing and hearts beating between them and he is so close, so close Thomas couldn’t feel his own legs anymore. Couldn’t feel his legs or the emptiness of the room because all he felt was Newt , everywhere, filling everything.
“Please.”
Newt said. The words dripped with honey, the way they always did. “Please don’t kill me for this.”
And he kissed Thomas.
His lips were actually softer than anything Thomas’ had ever known. Soft like snowflakes he didn’t remember seeing in this Goddamn fucked up world but he just knew that’s how they felt in your tongue. Soft like melting and floating and being weightless in water.
And Newt held him so carefully, so tenderly that all the shorter boy could think of was actually melting in his strong arms.
His own hands crawled up to the back of Newt’s neck, forcing him down, deepening the kiss — making sure Newt would understand that he would never kill him for that because why would he? And he felt the blond smirk into his mouth and, God , how he was completely lost.
It felt warm, it felt right. Like that was the best thing that ever happened to him since he came out of that Box. And Thomas knew he would never be able to live in a world where he couldn’t kiss Newt.
The taller boy’s hands went down once more and grabbed a hold on his waist, each one sending tingles through his entire body. His own fingers curled themselves into blond locks, pushing softly onto them.
And they pulled away, — just slightly so their foreheads were still touching because, how could they ever be separated again?
Thomas opened his eyes, but the only thing he could see were dark brown irises looking back at him, flushed pink cheeks full of golden freckles and chuckles that hung in the air just so he would never forget that was Newt . His best friend, the sweet guy who never left his side since he remembered being alive, the one who he knew truly believed him and would never leave.
And Thomas would make sure that things would stay like that.
Especially now.
They breathed together.