Work Text:
Sharing clothes happened often in the Glade. That’s what Minho tells him, anyway. They all came up with the clothes they were wearing, but WCKD would occasionally send spares. They would, on occasion, switch and share in between washes. It was commonplace to see Alby in a shirt that once was Gally’s, who in turn would be wearing Jeff’s.
It was a feeling of family, he said, of closeness. To share so freely what little they had. Thomas wasn’t there long enough.
It was different in the scorch, they had the clothes on their back alone. But Thomas still managed to find that closeness.
A red scarf, something so simple, that Newt had taken from the mall all those months ago. He’d worn it every day, protection against the sand and the bitter winds at night.
Until he saw that Thomas needed it.
Thomas, who refused to rest until Minho was found, stayed up on watch far more than any others, who would not take from the others.
Newt notices him shivering, only slightly, as he sits on watch. The others are gathered closely around the fire, but Thomas has sat himself apart.
Newt knows Thomas. He knows that he does not need to speak his fears, to talk through the plans, or to make any kind of idle chatter. He just needs to know he isn’t alone. So Newt stands beside him, removes the scarf that he has kept for so many months, and loosely wraps it around Thomas’s neck. Tugging on the end he smiles.
“Gotta keep warm, mate.” Then he leaves Thomas to the watch.
And if Thomas takes a moment to feel the fabric, worn but soft still, or to smell the light hint of Newt woven into it now, then Newt will pretend he does not see it.
~~~~~
The scarf, like much of what they had, is lost to the flames of the last city.
Thomas mourns its loss, because it’s an easier loss to face than the one he cannot name.
It is easier to think of the loss of Newt’s scarf, a piece of him he held close for weeks, than to think of the loss of Newt himself.
At the safe haven, he finds himself reaching for his neck. Reaching for a comforting fabric and the smell woven in that he no longer has.
Minho comes to him one night, after another day spent reaching and yearning for something beyond his reach.
“Jorge found some things in the berg.”
Thomas doesn’t look up, doesn’t even acknowledge the words.
Minho sniffs but continues. “It’s not him. Nothing will ever be him. But it was his, and it should only be yours.”
Thomas feels the weight of the jacket drape over him as Mimho lays it down. He feels the steady weight of Minho’s hand as he holds his shoulder, just for a moment, before leaving.
Then Thomas is alone, sinking into the feel of soft fabric, beige this time, and the accompanying smell. A scent he could never describe, but one he remembers so well. One he will never smell again, away from this piece of clothing.
On a bed, alone in the safe haven, Thomas clings to the last piece of Newt he has, and for a moment it feels okay again.