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When they spend their first couple of nights in the Scorch, he’s aware of how cool it is, of how it sends chills through his body because the sun dips beyond the horizon impossibly fast, faster than the sweat can dry off of his skin and he’s sent into chills. Aris is little help, his fingers curling into Thomas’ wrist and even when they press their sides together it does little to send away the chills.
Thomas doesn’t understand how it could go from impossibly boiling to bonechilling the next. His shoulder is stiff and sore from the bullet wound, a phantom ache burning into him, so he’s reverent about brushing his arm against anybody. It doesn’t help that his clothes are new - given to him from when WICKED had removed the bullet and infection from his shoulder – so they scratch and rub the wrong way, feeling uncomfortable and stiff against his skin.
The point was, all of this amounted to him being cold and even huddling – he would feverently deny that he was cuddling – with Aris and whomever else wanted to share body heat. Getting to the Safe Haven promised by WICKED wasn’t an easy task, but at least they were out of the city.
“I think they’re starting a fire,” Aris snorts in amusement, “I don’t know if they can even get it going, but maybe we should go over there instead.” Thomas stares through the dark sky, still pale even though no stars shone. Everything is washed in pale grey, looking ashen and sickly in the desert but at least it’s something to go by. Thomas squints a bit and yes, some of the Gladers were definitely trying to make a fire out of whatever they could find.
“How’d they even get it started?” Thomas asks, licking his cracked lips and squinting. Aris shrugs, something that the brunet felt more than saw. He saw small wisps of smoke pillowing up from the pyre.
“Don’t know, man,” Aris says, his breath warm as it tickles Thomas’ cheek. “But I’m definitely going over there.” He reaches out a hand and pats Thomas on the thigh, standing upright before brushing off the sand from his pants. He holds out a hand and smirks slightly when Thomas takes it. The olive-toned boy pulls him up with surprising strength and Thomas smiles thankfully.
They walk over towards the others, the few stragglers who tried to huddle around the fire. They toss sheets and pieces of wood from nearby wreckages onto it until the flames are bright enough to see by. The sand dunes around it look like it’s being paved by fire, liquid golds and browns. Most of the Gladers didn’t move, didn’t dance around the fire like they would occasionally do back in the Glade. There’s definite glee in their expressions, though, and relieved sighs as they hold out their hands in an attempt to capture some warmth.
“So you shanks have finally decided to join us?” one of them offers up, his eyes drooping tiredly but his smile is kind as he turns to look at them. It’s another one of the nameless Gladers that Thomas didn’t know; he felt a flash of remorse at only bothering to learn a handful of names. Then again, he had expected to stay there for a good long while, not to escape within a couple weeks.
“You know it,” Aris smirks, and sits down in an open space, fingers digging into Thomas’ palm and dragging him down too. “Can’t get rid of us now,” he says, a bit too happily and moves his shoed feet closer to the fire, eyes flicking to the warm amber glow. Thomas rolls his eyes and doesn’t protest when the other dark-haired boy presses a bit closer into Thomas’ side, but his attention is on the other Gladers nearby, mainly Minho who snarks up a quick conversation.
Thomas lets his thoughts wander, and almost unintentionally his gaze flickers over to the dark-haired girl somewhere further off. He couldn’t see much of her, other than her dark wave of hair and the dark clothes that she wore, but other than that she was undecipherable from the Jorge, who she slept against.
He frowns, and wonders not for the first time if she was only turning to him because of him being separated with her during the explosion. If she had only kissed him because he had been there, that he was the better option among a group of strangers. She had smiled at him plenty of times, had called him Tom and implied that she liked him, and yet…
“Hey, don’t think so loudly, Tommy, I think you might overuse your brain a bit too much,” comes Newt’s voice from somewhere across from him. Thomas slowly looks over, his eyes adjusting to the sudden shine of the fire before him. It was dying down already, and he only became aware of the sudden passage of time then.
There’s a couple of Gladers already sleeping, and the ones by the fire weren’t too close so they weren’t in danger of catching fire but not too far away to feel the warmth. Thomas could see another closing his eyes, and knows that it seems like Newt, another nameless Glader, Frypan, and himself were the only ones awake; even Aris had dropped off like a fly, his head pressed to Thomas’ thigh.
“Sorry,” he responds automatically, and frowning quickly. Newt’s familiar laughter was comforting; not judging or scolding, it just was. Thomas felt his shoulders relax and a nervous smile touch the corners of his lips – there was something about Newt’s laugh that put him at ease. It was often withheld, like he was stopping himself from laughing too hard, but it was sincere and honest in a way that most of the world wasn’t anymore.
“Don’t worry about it, Tommy, I’m just teasing, don’t get your knickers all knotted up,” Newt responds good-naturedly. Thomas gazes across the fire, trying to see the familiar blond. His face is awash in a golden glow, his eyes like gold coins in the firelight. Newt looks up for a second and their eyes meet across the burning pyre. There’s such intensity and warmth in that gaze that Thomas looks away, feeling his cheeks warm under the hearth of the fire. He distracts himself by splaying his fingers through Aris’ damp hair, looking at serene the boy is.
Thomas could feel Newt’s quizzical gaze linger on him, but before the older Glader could comment on it, the nameless Glader stands up abruptly and begins to saunter away. “I’m going to go take a load."
Thomas lets out a snort of laughter and Newt’s follows quickly after. “We definitely needed to know that soddy piece of information,” Newt says before picking up his voice. “Thanks a lot, Glen!” The Glader flips him off before becoming an blob of shadow at the corner of Thomas’ vision.
“Hey, at least we won’t think he got eaten by bears or something,” Thomas supplies helpfully, voice a bit loud in the chilly desert. He doesn’t need to see Newt to know he was smirking in response.
“Doubt that there’s any out here anyways,” Newt responds. Thomas could see the blond’s hands working, pulling apart some kind of log. The brunet frowns, watching the other work, his fingers digging in deftly and tearing. His movements were precise and swift as he dismantled the piece, tossing each individual chunk into the dying fire.
The shadows are long on Newt’s face when he suddenly stands up, chucking the piece of wood into the fire without abandon. “I’m not going to bloody yell at ya from across this bloody fire,” he says loud enough to be heard and tromps across the sand. The closer he gets, the more aware that Thomas is of the sand that was rubbing into Newt’s arms by the way the fire glinted off of him, of how Newt walked towards him with purpose.
Thomas swallows thickly and doesn’t have time to wonder as to why he’s feeling so nervous when Newt abruptly seats himself on the rough sand next to the brunet. Newt’s shoulder feels warm when he presses against Thomas’, giving reason for him to glance away.
“Ah, yeah,” he coughs, removing his hands from where he was fidgeting with Aris’ hair. The older boy scrunched his face up, before he eventually relaxes. “Although I think you should get to bed, first.”
“Already tired of my company?” Newt demands, tone unreadable. Thomas offers a quick shrug as a response, unable to say that he’d rather have no one else’s company, and instead winces when he stretches his one shoulder too far. He can feel Newt’s eyes on him, unwavering.
“…Is your shoulder okay?” Newt grunts out, curling his fingers into his hands and peering over at Thomas. Without waiting for a response, he peels back the shorter boy’s shirt, exposing his collarbones and mess of a wound. He peels away the bandage from it, exposing the wound riddled with torn flesh. Thomas tries to get a good glance at it.
WICKED had to carve away a decent enough portion of his flesh, too infected for salvage, but at least there’s enough skin and muscle for it only to dip into his shoulder and not look too odd. It was still red and swollen as it tried to finish what WICKED started to cure, scabbed over with dried blood but at least it looked less sickly than from the first glance that Thomas had managed to spare when he had first been shot.
Newt whistles lowly, almost appreciatively. “At least you’ll have a lovely scar to show off for the girls,” he says, helpfully, before snickering. “Almost bloody wish that you hadn’t gotten it, though. Don’t know what you did to peeve that scoundrel off, but it worked and you got yourself a right nasty scar.” He frowns, scratching at the corner of his mouth before trying to smooth the bandage back over. He tugs Thomas’ shirt back roughly and tries for a smile.
“Please,” Thomas scoffs, raising a hand to trace the ghost of Newt’s impressions on his skin. “The guy was a Crank, he didn’t have a reason to shoot me. I didn’t do anything to him,” at Newt’s incredulous expression, he hurries on, “I swear.”
Newt’s smile isn’t criticizing but it is doubtful. “If you say so, Tommy,” he rests his hands on his knees. Thomas takes this moment to admire the boy’s features, to see the soft glow on his face and which peppered his hair. “Who knows, I may just ask Brenda and see if she has a different story to tell.”
There’s a teasing glint to his eyes and Thomas scoffs. “I doubt it; besides, she’d likely be biased, anyways, and back me up.”
There’s a pause, perhaps a moment for explanation on what he meant, but instead Thomas swallows quickly and avoids Newt’s look. “Now, I can definitely understand why she would do that, but … she barely knows you, Tommy. I don’t think she’d back you up just yet.”
“Funny that, ah, I think maybe because she has a crush on me?”
A pause. “Oh?” There’s a guarded tone to his voice, almost sinister and violent and Thomas finds himself nodding quickly, hurrying for an explanation. He doesn’t know why it bothers him to admit to Newt that Brenda seemed to have a crush on him, why it made him worry about what Newt thought.
“She kissed me,” Thomas says, and Newt falls silent, aside from his breathing. “Back in the Crank party, before you guys rescued us, they … the people gave us funny drinks and she kissed me.”
“… ‘She kissed you’? Did you kiss her back?” Is Newt’s question, and Thomas shakes his head.
“No, I mean, maybe? It was like when Teresa kissed me. I was shocked, you know?” He’s rambling, on autopilot, searching for words to make it right.
“Teresa kissed you too?” Thomas spares a look and is all too aware of how firm Newt’s mouth is, how cold and calculating his eyes had become, and for a moment Thomas almost makes himself believe that Newt was jealous. “Man,” the blond leans away and his expression clears and his smile comes easier. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.” He tsks playfully, “Who knew you were such a ladies’ man? Don’t tell Minho, I think he had his eye on one of them.” He pauses, “Although I seriously think I should tell Brenda that Teresa is your not-girlfriend, just so she’s aware of the competition.”
“It’s not like that,” he finds himself saying, voice quiet in the stillness of the world. Aris seems to subconsciously know that this is a tense situation because he rolls away, and suddenly Thomas is so, so cold. “I didn’t kiss them back.”
“Well, why the bloody hell not?” Newt asks, his voice going softer and gentler. Thomas looks over at the blond, his words becoming lost on his tongue. Newt’s expression was honest, curious and open.
“They kissed me, not … the other way around,” he says, and curls his hands into his thighs, if only to occupy the space. “I was shocked and surprised, I couldn’t do anything.” The silence between them becomes long and stretched, and if Thomas doesn’t say anything the conversation could pitter off and that would be the end of that. But Thomas felt like he had to justify himself, had to explain to Newt why he didn’t return the kisses even though he didn’t completely understand why himself. “It didn’t feel right."
“Well, being suddenly kissed might not feel right to anybody,” Newt responds, ever so helpful. He’s staring up into the sky, his body turned away from Thomas and for the first time, he’s aware of how isolated Newt sometimes makes himself.
Thomas takes this opportunity to pick at his jeans, ignoring the sharp tings of pain that ran down his arm from his shoulder. “Might be different if I kissed them,” he says, and his heart picks up. He could hear it in his voice, of how he spoke, that on some level it was a request, an offer for … something. Newt slowly turns to face him and Thomas swallow thickly.
Newt’s eyes were glassy in the firelight and there was a slow smile on his face, “Oh, really?” A pause, “I’m sure that Brenda would be happy to let you kiss her, get a notion of how to kiss people. It’s pretty great once you get the hang of it.” Thomas feels something sharp slice into his chest at the thought of someone else kissing Newt.
“I don’t want her to think I’m taking advantage of her,” Thomas says, quickly. “And I can hardly ask Teresa because she’s not here."
“Well, Tommy, you’re out of luck, unless you want to ask one of us to do it. Minho? He might do it, I mean, he’s always looking at your butt,” there’s a slight tilt to his words, a joke – a tease – but it isn’t something that Thomas wants to hear.
“Hardly. If I were to try kissing someone, it would be someone I’d trust not to grope me,” he aims for a joke, and although being funny wasn’t a strong suit of his, Newt still lets out a quick peel of laughter.
“Someone like me, then?” Thomas could tell how innocent the question was, how much of a joke it was, and yet when the blond turned his dark eyes on the younger, Thomas realized how serious Newt was.
“Yeah.”
Newt smiles, and slowly and deliberately leans forward. “Oh, really?” he asks, accent thick and Thomas freezes. “Go on, then. See if it’s different this time ‘round, Tommy.” He almost purrs the last of his words and Thomas’ resolve breaks.
Nobody had ever said that Thomas thought about what he did before he did it, and he certainly hadn’t started then. It is with his courage in his mouth that he leans forward, hands like talons as he presses himself into Newt. Newt breaths out quickly, startled but not surprised.
Thomas had closed his eyes when he had done it, had even bumped his nose with Newt’s slightly and felt a brief flare up of pain. He could feel just exactly how rough the other’s lips were, although he doubted his own were any better. It’s a firm pressure, but nothing like Teresa or Brenda’s lips had been like. Thomas peeks open an eye, seeing Newt looking startled. The blond slowly lets out a breath and then Thomas begins to lean away.
Newt’s fingers are suddenly on the back of Thomas’ nape, a firm line marring his lips. “No, Tommy, I’m going to show you how to properly kiss,” and then the taller is leaning down again, tilting his head expertly and pressing his mouth to Thomas’. To say Thomas was startled would be an understatement; he breaths in sharply, not sure if he should push the other way. Newt is insistent, but not demanding.
It isn’t rough and fierce at first, instead it’s fleeting enough, almost unsure as Newt presses himself to Thomas. It’s sweet and gentle, warm when the rest of the night was cold. It’s not enough, too gentle – too much like the other’s kisses – that Thomas presses a little closer, a little rougher, asking for something else but not knowing what.
Something long and wet drags across Thomas’ bottom lip and he gasps loudly, surprised but a thrill running through him. He shudders at the foreign feeling of Newt running his tongue along the edges of his teeth before experimentally dragging along his lip again. He’s barely aware of his fingers grappling into Newt’s long hair.
Newt pulls back a moment to laugh breathlessly at Thomas’ stunned reaction. “Geez, Tommy, you could at least be a bit more enthusiastic,” he offers a quick eye roll.
“Shut up and let me kiss you,” Thomas is barely conscious of himself saying the words. Newt’s reaction is instant, his eyes honing in on Thomas’ high-flushed cheeks, his pupils dilating. There’s a confused glint in his eyes, but before Thomas could let the blond figure out why he was suddenly so desperate to kiss his friend, he curls his fingers tighter in the blond’s hair and tugs down until their mouths slot together again.
Thomas closes his eyes, tries to focus in on the feeling. It’s different, undeniably euphoric compared to how Teresa and Brenda’s kisses had gone. He had been startled, hadn’t felt enough to respond, his thoughts always on something else. For Teresa, it had been his friends and why she was doing it; Brenda’s kiss wasn’t right either, he had tried to deflect her affections, tried to say that he was interested in Teresa because she was the first person who had came to mind by default because she had been the only other person she had kissed. Both times, he had worried and thought about someone else, but with Newt it was different. With Newt, his mind went blank – he didn’t think about how Teresa or Brenda would react, how others would react to see two boys actively kissing, how Aris would flip if he looked over and saw his close friend kissing someone else, or how Minho would react to the greenie kissing his best friend.
This was the first kiss that he hadn’t thought about anyone else, hadn’t hoped that he was kissing someone else. This was the first time that he stopped worrying about getting everybody to the Haven and instead just wanted to feel for himself, taste Newt’s lips and hold him tight and never let him go. It’s with that train of thought that he realizes that something was wrong, but more right than anything else had ever been.
It’s almost aggressive how sharply Newt took command again, how quickly the blond was willing to dominate. It’s gentler, though, less tongue and teeth clicking together but still just as fierce, a fierce burning in his lower stomach that made him feel alive. It wasn’t strong or fierce like it originally was, instead Newt let Thomas try to map out the other’s lips, feeling and tasting and cherishing this moment. It was like being set on fire but loving the feeling – he didn’t want it to end, even when he had to pull back for air. Newt’s tactics may have been unorthodox, but it had felt right.
“Oh,” Thomas says, feeling Newt’s breath ghost along his face. There’s a breadth width between their foreheads, their noses brushing and Thomas has never felt more intimate than in this moment. He can see the whites of Newt’s eyes, how startling brown they are – not exactly a pretty color but suiting him all the same, with flecks of varying shades. The dying fire lit up his features nicely with a heavenly glow, lighting up his jawline and his cheekbones.
It is at this moment that Thomas saw the slow smile curl from the corners of Newt's lips, the realest thing that he had ever seen on the boy’s face aside from a scowl, set mouth, or slight crook of his lips. It was when Thomas’ heart beat swiftly in his chest that he realized the trouble he was in.
“So that’s what that’s like,” he says, distantly aware that he’s sounding breathless. Newt laughs, surprised and pleased all at once and Thomas’ heart ached because for once the blond hadn’t held back.
Newt’s expression slowly becomes unreadable and the silence stretches between them for a moment, aside from the soft sputtering of the dying fire. Thomas had poured as much emotion into that kiss as he allowed himself to, even though he hadn’t meant to or known it at the time. In that moment of eternity – a fraction of a second, a painful symphony and beautiful harmony all at once – he had realized why he hadn’t kissed the others back, why he had felt nothing. It was like everything he was supposed to feel in those other kisses were reserved for this one – for him to kiss Newt – finally, finally, his body sings – and everything came flooding in. All the giddiness, all the butterflies and dizzying feelings – all of it was present in the one kiss between them that wasn’t there before.
Thomas lets his hands drop from Newt’s hair at this realization, where he had been unconsciously tugging and he leans away, the sand shifting beneath his weight. He stares at his lap, unable to form words. He could still taste Newt on his mouth; sweat, grime, false bursts of flavour from dried meat, but still oh so beautiful.
“That great, huh?” Newt grins, teeth poking at the corners of his lips before he pats Thomas’ thigh, crossing the personal bubble but unknowing of Thomas’ inner turmoil. “Shucks, Tommy, didn’t know I could render people speechless with my lips - especially you.” A pause, and when he seemed to realize that Thomas wasn’t going to say anything – his mind still actively haunted by the ghost of Newt’s lips – he continues after clearing his throat.
“Hey, hope you decide you like kissing now – so long as you initiate it, or whatever the shuck the problem was with you not kissing them back,” Newt says, voice going softer. Thomas works his throat, and looks up sharply. He wants to tell Newt what he had realized, why the other kisses were so wrong, but his words catch in his throat and he utters a quick ‘thanks’ instead.
“Well, I’m goin’ to go put out the fire and hit the sack before I drop on ya,” the blond says, and pushes himself from the sand dune, seemingly uncomfortable by Thomas’ silence.
Thomas watches Newt’s retreating form, his eyes tracing the tall boy’s shoulder blades, barely visible as he turns to grab whatever it was to smother the fire. Thomas felt his heart leap into his throat, felt it thunder loudly, and he’s surprised that the other hadn’t heard it. He’s still watching Newt, watching his cords of muscle stretch as he begins to sputter out the fire, his long blond hair falling across his brow and obscuring his view of Newt’s face.
Thomas sincerely doubted he’d get any sleep tonight, not when he could still feel the ghost of Newt’s lips on his. I think I know what the problem was, he wants to say, but the opportunity has passed and Newt leaves him alone. On why I hadn’t kissed them back. It hadn’t been Teresa he had felt guilty towards when Brenda kissed him, even though it was the words that had left his lips – she had simply been the person that he had felt closest to at the time, the person he kissed first. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to kiss them, he really did. The problem was that it had been the wrong person all along.
Thomas watches Newt, checking for any sign that the kiss affected him as much as it affected Thomas. There was nothing – nothing for him to decipher. Newt acted as he always did, until his form became nothing in the darkness.
“Goodnight, Newt,” he says, quickly, the only words that he could form. His voice had caught, a slight tremble to his words but he quickly clears his throat.
There’s a beat of silence, and for a harrowing moment Thomas worried that the blond had fallen asleep on his feet. But in the next moment, everything shattered. “Goodnight, Tommy,” is Newt’s responding comment. It’s resigned, careful and sad and suddenly Thomas is afraid that the blond knows, that he knows why the other kisses meant nothing to him. But then Newt is shuffling away, the slow sound of his shoes hitting the sand echoing in the quiet.
Newt may have been the right person for Thomas to kiss, but that didn’t mean that Thomas was the right person for Newt – and Newt knew that. He slowly lets himself fall onto his back and closes his eyes, trying not to listen to the sound of his heart breaking.