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Hot. And cold.
That's how the Scorch felt. The sunlight beat them down in the day, and the sands made them shiver as they lay on their makeshift (and rather poorly made) beds.
If you could even call them those.
Newt wasn't sure where they were going. Though, of course he was never sure when he followed Thomas. Nonetheless, he would follow that bloody idiot anywhere. Anyways, Thomas and Aris stuttered out something about mountains that dreadful day in the mall.
(The place Winston was infected, right before he died.)
Apparently, they're heading to the mountains. In search of mountain people. Lovely, well thought out plan, Thomas.
And in the chilly blanket of the night, Newt does what he's always done best: noticing.
He notices how Teresa is fidgeting more often, a far away look in her eyes. He notices how Frypan looks at their small fire, probably missing their bonfires at the Glade. He notices how Minho looks unsure, that's a first, and it's something Newt never wants to see. He notices Aris, most likely feeling strange in the company of all of them, new people. He notices how the weight of Winston and Jack's passing is weighing on everyone.
And most importantly, he notices Thomas. Tommy, the stubborn and infuriating fool.
How Newt wishes he could hold him, tell him that everything will be alright. That he's leading them all in the right direction, and that even if he isn't, Newt will follow him to hell and back.
He looks exhausted— they all are. Yet, he's taken the burden of something more: their entire group. He's blaming himself for Winston and Jack's deaths and it's such a 'Tommy' thing to do. Newt knows that the two would never blame him. Knows, that if he were in their place, he'd be grateful for all Thomas has done for them.
And yet, all he can do is gaze from afar, gaze wandering, searching, tender and unknowingly loving.
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They're walking again, and it's getting dark. Which means cold yet again. Newt reaches for his red scarf, tied to his backpack and undoes it swiftly, throwing it around his neck. He hates the prickling feeling of cold, the way it makes the hair on his neck stand up.
"Okay, we park it here for the night," He hears Thomas announce.
With a relieved sigh, he throws his backpack down almost at the same time as the others, resulting in a resounding 'thud'. Newt slumps against the fallen building they're holing up under for the night and directs his gaze to the stars as Frypan gets a fire going.
He hears the sound of tentative footsteps, then some shuffling as Thomas takes a seat next to him. Newt turns his eyes towards him. And just like every time, he falls a bit deeper. Thomas.
Tommy, with his kind hazel eyes, arched nose, the constellation of moles on his face, that boyish yet charming smile and his unkempt brown hair that sticks up at odd angles (Newt wants to run his fingers through that hair, to caress it, to attempt to flatten it— stop.)
Newt thinks Thomas is the most perfect person he's seen. Oh, how he wants to kiss him.
Instead, he settles for a casual, "Hey, mate,"
Thomas gives him a soft smile, leaning against the building just like him. And just as quick, his gaze darts away to the stars.
"See that one? That's Orion." He says quietly, finger pointing towards the constellation as he looks up, eyes twinkling more than usual in the starlight.
As if he isn't making Newt's heart thud faster between his ribcage. As if he doesn't know Newt would carve his heart out and willingly give it to Thomas, which sounds very good at the moment. Anything to stop the pain of his unreciprocated love. Thomas interrupts his internal monologue by continuing, his voice quiet, reserved only for Newt's ears.
"Zeus put him in the sky after he was bit by a scorpion Apollo sent his way. See, he was jealous of Orion's relationship with Artemis which is why he decided murder is cool. Which it isn't. Not cool at all. Um, sorry, I don't know why I just said all that. I talk too much—"
Newt lets out a laugh and shakes his head, "Woah, slim it, you idiot. I liked the little story time. How d'you know all this anyway?"
"I just do, I dunno how. It's like I knew it. Before. Know what I mean?" Newt nods, because he does. Life before the maze. It sounds surreal, and... well, quite impossible. But then again, that's all it is. The past. What matters now is to get somewhere where they can build their WICKED-free future.
The two sit quietly for a moment before Newt feels his arm being nudged. He turns toward Thomas, the furrow in his brow disappearing when he sees the water bottle Thomas is offering him with that... look on his face.
The shucking puppy-eyed face which is practically begging Newt to drink up. And what choice does Newt have but to take the damn thing? After a few gulps of water, he hands the bottle to Thomas, who drinks from it too. Right where Newt's lips touched it and—
Bloody hell, Newt, knock it off. It's just a water bottle, what else would Thomas do other than drink from it? Why does his mind always go to something he can never have? Stupidstupidstupid--
"—ewt? Newt. Hey, what's wrong?"
Newt swallows, blinking as if someone dumped a bucket of Griever slime on him. He looks at Thomas and gives him a thin smile. "Yeah, Tommy, I'm fine. Just zoned out."
Thomas looks sceptical but seems to brush it off as he puts the water bottle away and stands up. After a moment of hesitation, he offers Newt his hand with a shy smile. And like North, helplessly drawn to it's South, Newt takes it.
Shit, Tommy always knows how to disarm him.
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Thomas gets up shakily and leaves the site when Frypan tearily mutters how he misses the Glade. Newt's eyes, like everything else in his body, follow Thomas until he goes far off the sight. Every cell in his being tells him to go after him, and he doesn't need to listen, because he already is.
He finds the brunet a few feet away, staring at the Chuck's figure pensively, as if the bloodied, worn wood could tell him where the Right Arm is. Newt sits down, exchanging a quick glance with Thomas, only for his eyes to return to the figure.
"You haven't slept a wink since we left the maze," Newt says softly. Thomas only gives a half-assed shrug in return.
Newt purses his lips, wondering how to comfort this beautiful, perfect, brave boy. He wets his bottom lip and continues.
"Listen, Frypan was just lettin' off some steam."
"He's right though, I'm the reason we're stuck out here." It's so soft and hoarse that Newt's heart clenches beneath his tattered ribcage.
"No. No, you're the reason we're free." You're the reason I want to live. You're my hope.
Thomas just stares at the sand unsurely, as if the grains are mocking him.
Newt continues, steady. "Now, the others may have their doubts and that's fine, but... they would follow you anywhere."
A beat.
"They'd follow you, too." The cracks in Newt's ribcage heal. Just a bit.
"No, it's different with me, though. You know it is. We all have our roles to play."
Thomas makes a subtle movement and looks at the horizon. Sand, sand and more sand. "I don't know where we're going. We're lost."
I was lost. Before you came here, I was lost. You showed me light. You are my light.
"We've been lost before."
A shake of the head. "Yeah, but not like this." Yes. It was worse.
"There is a place for us out there somewhere. I don't know where it is, but I do know that awful lot of our friends died to get us this far. And so we can't give up.
"You can't give up." A small sound, akin to a chuckle. "I won't let you."
In a moment of bravery, he reaches out and pats Thomas' back, his hand lingering for longer than necessary, fingers brushing the sand-covered fabric of Thomas' jacket. He smiles tentatively.
"C'mon. Get some sleep, yeah?" He makes to stand, but a hand catches his wrist.
And when he looks down, those beautiful hazel eyes he'd fallen for are staring at him with a storm of emotions. Gratefully, worriedly and something else Newt can't decipher.
Can't? Or won't hope to?
"Thank you." Thomas says sincerely, his grip on Newt's wrist tight.
"Always." Newt replies without hesitance. Because it's true. He'd follow Thomas anywhere.
Thomas swallows and Newt hears his throat click audibly.
"Hey, let's get you some more water, yeah? Then it's off to bed."
Thomas smiles drily, a small but genuine thing. "Yes, mom."
Newt groans at the old Glader-given nickname and swats Thomas' arm, tugging him back to the campfire where their friends are already half-asleep. Teresa's dozed off in her bed of worn blankets, her hair curtaining her face, Aris's head is lolling back against the wall, Frypan looks dead to the world and Minho—
—is conveniently staring at Thomas and Newt with that all-knowing, Satanic smirk of his. Newt frowns at him and mouths 'shut up'. Minho just raises his hands in surrender.
Because Minho reads into things too much. And that means bad news for Newt. Because, theoretically, Minho must have figured him out by now, right? And he can't have that. He can't have Thomas find out when the brunet is already so in love with Teresa. Who, Newt is sure, loves him back.
(Newt can live happy just knowing Thomas is happy. Even if it isn't with him.)
Once Thomas sits down, Newt offers him a canteen and the stupid shank only drinks two sips. Bloody self-sacrificing, hero-complexed slinthead. With a huff (he knows he can't argue with Tommy's stubborn arse), he puts the canteen away.
"Alright, then. Goodnight, Tommy." His only answer is a tiny nod before Thomas moves to lay down.
And subsequently sits back up. Bloody hell, Tommy...
"Can I lay with you?"
What?
"What?"
Thomas seems to regret his words and fumbles around for more.
"W-Well, I, uh, thought we could use the— the... warmth! Yeah. It's, um, cold. Y'know, nights in the Scorch," A nervous chuckle, "But, hey, it's totally okay if you don't want to, I mean, privacy and all that, just tell me and I'll lay off because—"
"Tommy." Newt interrupts the (adorable) ramble with a smile.
"Huh?"
"It's okay. That's a good idea,"
"Oh." Thomas says shortly, looking stumped. And maybe the firelight is playing tricks on Newt, but is Tommy... blushing?
(No, no, mm-mm. Stop.)
Newt just nods and lays down beside Thomas. They pull up the ratty blanket to their chins. Luckily, Newt does not catch Minho's smirk before he turns away from them and closes his eyes.
They're facing each other, eyeing each other like they've met for the first time.
("I thought you had the chops to be a runner. Till you face-planted."
"What's a runner?"
Three looks thrown over his shoulder. A single one thrown from his own.)
A bit later, Newt sees Thomas' eyes droop. The brunet chooses that moment to shift closer to Newt, gentle breaths hitting Newt's chin and lips. Shit. Newt swallows, his throat suddenly feeling dry. He takes a shuddering breath and moves to turn the other way when Thomas' arm wraps around him.
Newt's heart thumps faster, yet somehow, his ribcage heals again. It always does when he's near Tommy.
And when Thomas speaks, Newt's heart stops.
"Love you."
It's soft. Sleepy. Whispered. As if it never existed. But Newt's still experiencing heart failure, thank you very much because — how?
What about Teresa? Was Thomas dreaming of her? Or did he mean it? Could he have? Was it possible Newt could have the boy he wanted? Was it?
He really hopes the answer is yes. He needs Thomas like he needs air to breathe.
Then, tentatively, unsurely. The barest whisper. "I love you too, Tommy. I have since we met."
He lets himself shut his eyes and rest.
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They're getting ready to move again, shoving their blankets, scarves and sweaters inside their backpacks, because surprise, surprise, the Scorch is hot again.
Newt is sweating. Because of the heat and mostly because he professed his eternal, undying love to Thomas and he isn't even sure Thomas feels the same.
Again, stupid. Extremely stupid.
("Stupid in love," The devil on his shoulder with Minho's face sing-songs, drawing out the 'o'. Newt wants to flick him off.)
Newt feels it, the weird... something, between him and Thomas.
Tension? A wall? Feelings? Shuck knows. All Newt knows is that Thomas was most likely, ninety-nine percent dreaming of Teresa.
Because... that day on the sand hill, when the two were standing and talking in their own bubble which was only popped when Winston fired the gun. Their secret smiles, Thomas' hands (big and gentle and warm) as they pushed away Teresa's hair to look at her nape.
Newt will always be the sidekick. The best friend. He'll take that over Thomas rejecting him anyways.
And so they trudge on.
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It's nearly midday when Minho catches him, the shuckfaced bastard.
(Would he be pleased to know that the devil on Newt's shoulder has his face? Probably. Would he also like to know that Newt thinks he's Satan? Oh, yeah.)
He has that signature smirk on his face, the same one which has nearly gotten him punched a million times. The same one Alby used to give an exasperated sigh on, whenever he saw it.
The same one Newt hates. Because it's way too knowing! Even if this shank doesn't know a single thing about you, his smirk will make anyone feel like he does.
Again, unfortunate.
"Why that sulky face, shank? Did'ja klunk your pants?" Minho, the devil, grins and clamps a hand on Newt's shoulder.
Newt grumbles and shoves Minho's arm off him. "Go 'way, Minho, I'm not in the mood."
"You never are, slinthead. No, really, tell me what's wrong. Papa Minho's here for you."
If looks could kill, Minho would be run over by an army of Grievers. He, however, ignores the scathing look and punches Newt's arm gently.
"Look, whatever you're thinking, stop it. I know Tommo feels the same way."
Bloody shucking hell. Newt knew Minho would know.
"Can you not poke your nose into other people's business, Minho? I don't—"
A hand lands on his shoulder. Gentler this time. He looks at Minho to find a solemn expression on his face. Another first.
"You are my business, shank. I've lost Alby, I can't lose you. You're my best friend, Newt. And if Thomas doesn't like you back, but I'm fairly sure he does, it's his loss. You're our glue, dude."
And damn if that doesn't make his eyes mist over. How can one person be both a crackhead and a wise guy? Is he even one person? Newt's not sure if he wants to drown Minho in a sand dune or crush him in a hug.
He chooses the latter.
Minho's arms encircle him and pat his back like they always do.
He feels lighter, as if Minho took some of that weight and threw it far, far away.
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Look, walking and running have never been Newt's thing since the Fall. He never did think that he'd have to climb up and down on stubborn, sandy ground as his feet sink inches deep into the grains and fill his ratty shoes with sand.
He's not surprised that Minho notices. He's his best mate, after all. Thankfully, though, he says nothing, knowing how Newt feels towards this... thing.
He is surprised, however, when Thomas approaches him after them not talking the whole morning. His brows are pinched and his eyes are wide and concerned.
Stupid, stupid, brown cow eyes.
"Hey, uh, you okay?"
Shuck. He must have noticed the more pronounced limp. Good going hiding it, Newt.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"
"Nothing, I just... noticed you're limping and—"
"I said I'm fine, Thomas." Newt snaps.
He immediately regrets it when he sees Thomas wilt and give the smallest of nods. Without thinking, he grabs his sleeve with an apologetic expression which probably looks more like a grimace.
"I'm sorry. I just... it's fine. I'm okay, yeah? I'm not gonna slow us down. Let's keep moving, okay?"
Thomas looks at him for a moment, those eyes digging into his soul, trying to find... something. But then he settles for another nod and reaches out to pat his shoulder.
When his hand leaves, Newt's shoulder burns.
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It's getting colder again, which leads everyone to look for shelter. Newt's noticed Frypan joking around with Aris, who's now begun to give tentative smiles on those as well as Minho's smart remarks. Even Teresa smiles sometimes.
They find a building bent into a inverted V-shape, perfect to hole up under. As everyone puts their bags down, Minho whines for Frypan to get started on food already (even if it's bloody meagre).
Newt settles a few ways away from the others, but soon feels someone sit next to him. He thinks it's Minho at first, but he turns and (to his surprise), it's Teresa. She gives him a small smile and draws her knees to her chest.
A moment of silence as they listen to the others' quiet chatter and the crackle of the fire. Teresa speaks a minute later.
"You doing okay?" She asks, blue eyes inquisitive.
Newt gives her a nod, settling his chin on his knees.
She looks at him for a bit and bites her lip, exhaling through her nose.
"What's going on between you and Tom? He seems down today."
Newt blinks. Huh?
"I dunno, Teresa. Why don't you ask him? He'll probably tell you." He murmurs, and forgive him if his tone is a bit snippy.
Teresa's eyes widen and her cracked lips form an 'o', as if she's just had an earth-shattering realisation.
"Oh. Oh. Oh my god, you're jealous!"
Newt gives an offended scoff, frowning as if someone kicked his baby goat.
"Of what?!" He squawks out, tone just as offended as the preceding scoff.
"Of— Newt, listen. There's nothing between me and Tom," Teresa insists, her eyes getting wider still. "He's like family to me. Just as much as you all are."
Again, what?
"What?"
She nods insistently, squeezing his shoulder.
"You should talk to him, Newt. He looks like a kicked puppy. I don't know what happened between you guys, but you need to talk it out. Okay?"
Is that girl telepathic or is she just perceptive?
Newt simply stares ahead. Oh, shuck. This should be impossible. This can't be real, people like Newt don't get people like Thomas. Newt's... damaged. And he's half sure Thomas is sunlight incarnate.
(The angel on his shoulder, who looks like Alby, gives him a nudge and whispers, "If you think he is, shouldn't you preserve that sunlight?"
And he's right.
Because Tommy isn't like the sun in Scorch. Or the artifical one in the Glade. He's sunlight, pure and warm, like a hug.
Like coming home. And Newt was stupid to not realise it.
Stupid not to realise that Thomas is home.
"And stupid not to realise that Thomas, that wonky slinthead, feels the same way," the Minho on his shoulder says sarcastically. Newt wants to beat him up.)
He nods once at Teresa, who smiles, patting his shoulder as she gets up and walks toward the fire.
Newt makes up his mind. He will talk to Thomas. Tonight.
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Newt cannot talk to Thomas tonight because he's getting cold feet.
Bloody hell. Shit. Okay, maybe he just has to hype himself up. He takes a deep breath and looks at Thomas, sitting by the fire and watching the glowing embers as everyone else falls into a state of half-conciousness.
He walks over and sits down next to him, the scene reminding him of last night. Inching a bit closer, he clears his throat. It works instantly, because Thomas' head is whipping around so fast, Newt's surprised that it doesn't disjoint from his neck. He looks like an eager puppy. Newt inhales and fidgets with his sleeve as he looks at Thomas.
"Can we talk?" He says quietly.
Thomas nods quickly, turning to give him his full attention. Oh, Tommy.
"I'm sorry for snapping earlier today. It's just..." Say it. "I was, err..." Tell him!
"I was jealous." There. It's done.
Thomas blinks. "...of what?"
Does this shank really not realise? Newt opens his mouth to give him a sarcastic reply when he hears Thomas' next words.
"I thought I told you. Last night. That, um, I... y'know. And, uh, this morning, you didn't wanna talk, so I assume you don't feel the same way, which is perfectly fine, Newt, I swear, I—"
"Stop talking." Newt says, breathless all of a sudden. Thomas promptly snaps his mouth shut.
"You are so bloody stupid!"
Thomas flinches and looks at the sand, and are those tears in his eyes? Err, maybe Newt phrased this wrong.
"Wait, no, I mean—" He groans under his breath, "I'm not good at this, Tommy. What I meant was that I... love you, too. I told you that last night. But I s'pose you fell asleep by then."
Thomas' head snaps up again, and seriously, how is it still attached to his neck? His mouth opens and closes before he rushes forward and gives Newt the messiest, sloppiest kiss of his life.
And doesn't give Newt time to respond because he's pulling back and muttering, "Oh, shit, that was too early, I'm sorry, I—"
Newt drags him back in for another, his bottom lip locked between Thomas' dry lips. His tongue darts out to brush Thomas' teeth and the brunet groans in surprise. Newt's hand settle on Thomas' cheeks as they pull him closer, closer, closer, and Thomas' hands find Newt's bicep and hip.
The two part for oxygen and Thomas licks his red, kissed lips. And holy shit, Newt did that.
Newt kissed Tommy. Newt bit those lips. Newt messed up his hair.
Then, Thomas laughs and leans forward again, but this time, their foreheads meet and the brunet bumps their noses together. Newt looks into his eyes and nearly cries when he sees them, because they hold the softest look he's ever seen.
He settles for a wet chuckle instead and brings Thomas into a hug-turned-tackle. The two lay in the sand, Newt on top of Thomas, and grin like mad. Newt leans forward to kiss him, and they exchange kisses between breathy giggles.
Thomas puts a hand on Newt's chest and gazes at him tenderly and murmurs ever so softly, "Don't you wanna talk about this?"
Newt smiles and shakes his head, cupping his face gently.
"We can talk later. All you need to know right now is that I love you. Always have and always will."
Thomas beams. "I love you, too."
And he leans forward to capture Newt's lips. Newt lets him. Every part of him is Thomas' anyway.
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Minho lays in the sand, the last one awake when he spots Newt settle down next to Thomas. In the dark, he rolls his eyes. End of the world, and these stupid shanks can't their shit together. Minho wants to die.
They've got him stressed out and it's not even his relationship.
He hears murmuring, then after a bit, he hears—
Woah, woah, woah. Holy mother of Glade. Are those smoochy noises?! Wait, don't tell him his best friends finally grew a brain. Daring to move his head, he chances a look at the dying fire and the boys before it and—
Okay, yeah, uh-huh, no, he does not need to see that.
But, mentally, he's celebrating. The pining was getting old. This? It's probably infinitely better than those longing looks that made Minho gag.
Shucking finally. Minho can now have a goodnight's sleep.
He cannot wait for tomorrow morning to tease them relentlessly.
⋆ ★ ⋆