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The sun certainly sets the scene for the glade. Not in a realistic way—the sun certainly isn’t a good example of the ever imprisoning cement walls and the monsters that live within the gaps. It’s not beautiful or pretty. It’s suffocating. At least, Newt thinks so. But it does exactly that: sets the scene. The warm glow illuminates the light shadows of bodies in hammocks and sleeping bags. It’s not beautiful or anything nice…it’s just fitting. Maybe that’s just because it is all he’s ever known. Or maybe it’s more than that.
Either way the sun slipping over the maze wall doesn’t instantly cure his creeping aches that coexist with the chill up his spine. He had to get more blankets at some ungodly hour last night just because of how cold it was—still is. But the world keeps on spinning—where did he get that saying from? He hasn’t even seen the world apart from this stinking place. He drags himself up, stretching his stiff legs and wincing at the throb rattling his skull.
He walks up to Fry’s kitchen, knowing Fry might not be up yet but there surely will be something there to eat to soothe his nausea. He skulls a glass of water and sighs. Newt ends up finding a bright red apple and munching away.
Maybe it’s the headache. Maybe it’s the constant dryness in his throat that when he drinks water it feels like lava. Or maybe it's the extreme amount of goo that is stuffed like a corkscrew up his nose.
Who knows.
And Newt isn’t in the mood to figure it out. He just knows that he feels like complete and utter shit.
Even so, he does the morning rounds, making sure everyone is starting to wake up and begin the day. He’s just about to reach Tommy’s hammock when a hand lands on his shoulder. Newt startles and jumps, turning around, fist clenched. They have had bullies in the Glade before…he has to remind himself he is safe now.
When he turns however he almost laughs at himself for perceiving the a threat. Because it’s Tommy. The beautiful, perfect Tommy, that walked into their lives and has stayed with them. Thomas’ once relaxed expression morphs into a deep furrowed eyebrows position that has Newt tilting his head.
Thomas eyes him up and down. “You look terrible.”
“Gee thanks mate,” Newt rolls his eyes. “Real flatterer you are.”
He forces himself to not look at the brunette and continue sorting through the kids. He wonders if Jack is still having nightmares. Moving in front of Thomas he looks around the corner for where the poor guy who has been plagued with nightmares the last few nights usually sleeps—screams echoing throughout the glade whenever Newt finds him. “You’re up awfully early for you, Tommy.” Newt says casually, it comes out all nazelly.
“Yeah I woke up not that long ago…” he tilts his head to the side and gains a few steps ahead of him. “…are you alright?”
Newt rolls his eyes. “Quit lookin’ at me like that, Greenie. What’s got you all worried?”
“I’m not worried.” Pink radiates up his cheeks, before he pauses. “I was just checking in. It’s fine when you do it.”
Newt huffs a laugh, still smiling. Did he ever smile like this before Tommy came up here? “That’s because it’s my job.”
Thomas looks like he’s about to disagree before whispering a, “You sure have a lot of jobs, Newt.”
Newt shrugs, not really knowing what to say to that. He hasn’t exactly counted them. Besides Second in Command is a broad title - technically a lot can fall under that responsibility. “Nothing wrong with keeping busy,” he says, as he continues to walk next to Thomas. “Because you know-“
“Order. Yes, I do know. And what’s the order for when someone is sick in the glade? Do they have to work?”
Newt’s brows furrow in thought. “Not if they’re genuinely sick. Of course not. We value hard work, but we aren’t mean, Tommy.” He looks up at the other boy, almost a little hurt/offended by the remark.
“Right…and what if someone in charge was sick? Like, Alby for example.”
Newt’s face scrunches up. “Obviously I would step up and he would rest for a bit.”
“Interesting. And what if the Second in Command were sick?”
He abruptly halts. “What are you getting at, Thomas?”
The boy in question struggles to hide his surprise at the…certain wording. “You just seem a little-“
“What? Thomas...” Newt snaps and instantly regrets it when he sees the brunette’s face drop.
Then Thomas’s expression forms into a frown. “As I was saying… you look paler than usual and rather…”
“Rather…?”
“Worse for wear,” Thomas finishes. Vulgar…some could argue.
Newt raises an eyebrow. “Are you calling me ugly, Tommy?”
“What! No, I’m just-“
Newt huffs a laugh looking away and then back at Thomas. “Yes, I know what you mean. But I’m just a bit tired this morning I think. Nothing can be done about that.”
Thomas’s eyes scan him carefully. “You sure?”
Newt rolls his eyes and continues forward. “I’m always bloody sure.”
“If you say so,” Thomas says, eyes trailing where Minho is walking over to the Runner’s hut across the glade. Then he takes one last glance at Newt and swivels around to catch up with the Keeper.
Newt watches him go, shaking his head fondly. That Tommy always seems to care about him in ways no one else does. Or maybe they do, he knows they do. But it’s different when it’s Tommy because he sees through him like glass–compared to everyone else. Newt has always been the best at reading people and Thomas certainly isn’t observant. In fact he’s one of the most oblivious shanks Newt has ever met.
But when it comes to things like Newt not feeling well, or not getting enough sleep, it seems Thomas can see everything and have an opinion on it. And opinions he doesn’t seem to lack…
And Newt acts like he hates it. He acts like it’s an inconvenience and mildly annoying. He acts like he doesn’t need Thomas’s concern and orders for him to just go to sleep, Newt.
But deep down…he craves it. He craves Thomas gently rubbing his back when he has had a nightmare. He craves the way Thomas tells him he’s going to be okay. He almost…loves it. Because at least then he knows people care. Of course they care it’s just- anyway, it doesn’t matter now.
Newt turns a corner, and finally finds Jack huddled up in a blanket peacefully. He sighs in relief; it’s good seeing him calm and sleeping seamlessly. They’ve pretty much all had nightmares at some point. The Glade isn’t exactly a ‘dreamless sleep’ kind of place.
He should wake the kid up like everyone else. But…look he’ll get up eventually anyway.
He squints at the sun, sitting up much higher now. And just like every other morning, the day has begun.
____________________
His skin is a sickly kind of clammy as he lodges the metal into soil.
Weeding.
Seems to be all he’s really good for these days.
That blocked nose from earlier isn’t blocked, but now running at full speed. His headache feels like a tight metal band is wrapped around his head and every breath in feels like sandpaper is scraping his throat. And it’s so, so hot.
The day is finally almost over and the maze doors should be closing in an hour. The Runners have started jogging out—all except Minho and Thomas.
It’s so hot they probably have heatstroke. One of them must be sick. Or maybe they passed out? What if a Grie-
They’ll be back he tells himself, as he wipes his nose using the back of his hand with a loud sniff. His vision spins when he pelts the hoe back into the ground and he leans on it for balance, closing his eyes for a second. They’ll make it.
Newt ends up leaving the tool on the ground and walking over to the Maze doors, antsy with anticipation and fear. Even with the setting sun, his skin still feels like it’s on fire.
Chuck hovers beside him, eyebrows furrowed. “Where are they?”
Newt doesn’t reply—not knowing what to say. If only he has an answer. For a moment it looks like sparkles are shifting across his sight, but when he leans on the wall for a bit they go away.
In fact, now that he thinks about it, those stars seem to be drifting back. Newt’s body slouches against the wall. The metal is rough against his side as the weakness in his knees and muscles pull him down. Newt squeezes his eyes closed, a loud ringing echoing through his skull. What was he doing here? Why is he on the ground? Oh that’s right: Tommy and Minho. Where are they? They aren’t here. God, it’s hot. Soft. The grass is soft, maybe he could just…wait, why is he here again?
Hot.
It’s so hot.
Darkness.
______________________
It’s coming for him. And fast.
The sound of cranky metal, rattling, combined with the wet sounds set him off running faster. His leg burns with each stride and he isn’t sure how much faster he can go.
This freaking stinging rises up his lungs when he turns a corner. Then something solid hits into him from the side and he can hear running footsteps beside him.
It’s Jack.
He’s been crying.
“You let me,” he yelps. “I was scared and you left me. What good are you?”
“Jack?”
“How could you do that? No wonder Alby made you second in Command, you have no other purpose.” He scoffs. “You’re just a title.”
Jack’s face isn’t red from the running. Just ever so pale. Newt is left with nothing to say, when suddenly Jack falls out of step and goes flying for the floor. Newt fails to grasp him as he falls and Newt already knows it’s too late. The disgusting grinding sound intensifies as it picks up the boy. Newt grunts, looking ahead as tears stream down his eyes. Jack…
“-ewt. Newt?”
He sticks his fingers in his ears but someone gently pulls them out. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
Newt opens his eyes, looking around. Thomas is right there, leaning over him with his eyebrows drawn tightly together.
“Tommy?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
The back of a cool hand is placed on his forehead and Newt blinks.
“You’re burning up,” Thomas states, with an anxious frown.
There is a cloudy haze blocking Newt’s brain stems because he is struggling to keep up with everything that is happening. “No, no, it’s fine. Tommy, what are you doing here?”
“You’re really sick, Newt,” Thomas says simply, in a voice as if he’s some baby guinea pig:
“Don’t talk to me like a baby,” Newt mumbles. He turns his head into his shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Thomas’s hand threads its way through Newt’s hair. “I’m just going to get a wet cloth,” he says, back to his original voice, but still with that kind tone that melts Newt.
Newt squeezes his eyes shut as he feels Thomas stand up beside him. “You and Minho alright?” he asks, desperation lining his voice.
Thomas turns back around to face him, a blue tea towel in hand. “Yes, Newt. We’re fine. We came back a while ago, you‘ve just been asleep for a long time.”
Newt blinks. “How long?” All drowsiness from earlier seemingly gone, replaced with a frantic glint in his eye. His head bobbles up to take in his surroundings properly. He’s in his bed, tucked in all nice and neatly like a child, yet he has no idea how he got there.
Thomas gently pushes him back down and responds. “Not that long—nevermind that.” He notices Newt scan his surroundings. “They wanted to take you to the Medhut, but I said you would be more comfortable here.”
Newt nods, gratefully. Despite everything going in a direction he really didn't want, that would have been even worse. He grimaces at the image of Clint and Jeff standing at his feet, watching him on one of those scrawny medical beds.
“Hey, you still with me?” Thomas asks, as the dripping towel is pressed to his head. Newt sighs in relief as the cool temperature soothes his clammy skin.
“Why is it so hot?” Newt mumbles.
Thomas’s eyes soften. “It’s not. You have a fever. Chuck is running you a bath now to try and bring your temperature down.”
Newt frowns.
Thomas rolls his eyes. “Clint said it should help,” he argues.
“Since when do you listen to him?”
Thomas shrugs. “Since I needed to.”
Newt feels sticky and gross and uncomfortable. His body aches yet he keeps on moving to try and get into a comfortable position–making it worse.
Thomas’s hand wavers over Newt, almost like he’s trying to just stop the pain with his hand. Instead he bits his lip as he brings the cloth back up. “Try to get some sleep.”
“It’s so…” Newt pants.
“I know, but just try for me, okay? Please.”
¬
In a flash the clear path ahead is now the Griever’s cliff and he’s heading right for it. He tries to slow down but he still falls. On the very edge, one arm is holding him up. He screams as he lifts himself back up. Funny how death once comforted him in a relieving way and now look at him, here to fight it. But the Griever doesn’t seem to notice him standing—or maybe he just doesn’t care. Either way Newt scrambles to the wall, trying to dodge the vicious beast.
And then it falls into the pit. When Newt looks back down he screams. He screams so loudly that he knows the creatures will have an earache for the rest of eternity. Because Minho and Thomas are down there, both unmoving and staring. Staring at him.
They lay splayed out like crushed bugs, bones in all weird directions and that light Tommy carries with him is…gone.
Something shakes him and he scrunches his eyes closed, not daring to look at the image again. But when the shaky gets harder, his eyes shoot open and he reaches out blindly. He grabs onto a body, eyes meeting deep brown pools.
Thomas is right there—very much alive.
Newt blinks slowly, struggling to register the emotional change. “Tommy?”
“Sorry,” Thomas says, letting go of Newt’s shoulders. “You wouldn’t wake up and I…well I had to make sure you were okay–it looked like you were dreaming”
Something like that.
Newt searches his surroundings. He recognises the larger path and screech sound of the water flowing. This is where—very rarely—people have baths because they either can’t wash themselves in the showers because of an injury or maybe they deserve a nice little soaking afternoon. It was Ben’s idea a while back, to help soothe the aches and pains that came with being a runner.
Newt’s brows pull in. “What are we doing here?”
“You’ll feel better after a lukewarm bath.”
Newt’s too tired to argue or even have a conversation as he is slowly guided down into the tub, hissing at the sheer coldness.
“I know, I know,” Thomas says empathetically. “It won’t be long.”
Newt nods slightly, leaning his head back and trying to distract himself from the pain but also the image of Minho and Thomas from his dream circling his thoughts in an endless pattern since he woke up.
His teeth chatter and he wraps his arms around himself. Thomas rubs his hand up and down his shoulder in support. Newt’s teeth clatter and a chill wracks his body. It’s like he’s hot but freezing cold at the same time. At least this way the icky sweat will wash off him. After a moment Thomas’s hand finds Newt’s forehead and checks the temperature “God, we need an actual thermometer,” Thomas mutters.
Newt fights back the urge to tell him they actually do have one somewhere in the MedHut, but that would mean having Tommy stick glass under his tongue, or armpit, or… He shakes his head at his own thoughts, but stops and winces when the ache in his head sharpens. “Newt?”
“Yeah?” he responds, strained, face scrunched up in pain.
“You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Thomas frowns, feeling Newt’s face again.
“You’re gonna get sick,” Newt warns quietly.
“I’ll be alright.”
“No-”
“Okay, I think your fever has gone down enough. Let’s get you out now.”
Newt deadpans. “I can get myself out, thank you very much.” He tenses, dragging his arms up the sides of the bath for support as he slowly pushes up. Before he can even comprehend the weakness deep in his bones, Thomas is right there, lifting him up from the back. When Newt is standing he takes Thomas’s hand so as to not slip, and steps out of the bath. A wave of dizziness and nausea hits him, causing him to swallow. The cold air burns his skin and he hisses at yet another temperature change. Thomas wraps a towel over Newt’s shirtless body and rubs his shoulders to create friction. Newt’s teeth aren’t the only things clattering, now his entire body is shaking violently.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, sympathetically. “At least the fever has gone down now.”
“Not your fault.”
Newt just keeps on shivering, until Thomas guides him back to bed, pulling a thin blanket over him. Newt coughs, haggardly, as his body spasms forward. Once he is finished he falls back down miserable, rubbing at his throat. Thomas hands him a glass of room temperature water and he accepts with a raspy, “Thank you.”
The pulsating in Newt’s head only worsens with the coughing and his eyes squeeze shut after handing the glass back to Thomas and lying flat.
Newt groans in the crook of his own elbow, arm draped dramatically over his face.
A cold hand snakes its way to his forehead and sits there. Newt squirms away. “Tommy.”
“What?” he replies innocently, moving his palm away.
“Stop that,” Newt says with all the bite he can muster.
“I’m just checking.”
“I know.”
“You’re still pretty hot,” Thomas remarks.
Under his covered face, Newt’s smirk peaks out. “Ya think?”
Thomas’s cheeks redden and he turns away. “I’m being serious, Newt.”
“Me too, shank. But right now I feel bloody awful so I don’t think I’m going to look too hot for a while.”
“You look great," Thomas says, all too quickly. “Well, you know, for someone so sick and all.”
Newt huffs a laugh that irritates his headache. “Thanks, Tommy.”
He smiles, face pink. “Anytime.”
Newt hunches forward, coughing raggedly. Thomas is there in a second, rubbing circles into his back gently. “Hey, it’s alright. You’ll probably sleep it off soon.”
Newt bloody hopes so. When the coughing finally subsides he relaxes back down, sighing once he hits the pillow. He reaches blindly for a tissue which Thomas eventually realises Newt’s frantic hand is looking for and passes him a box. Newt blows his nose and looks up at Thomas hovering above him. He’s just about to remind him, to check on Alby and make sure Minho doesn’t stay up all night so he doesn’t pass out in the Maze tomorrow. He is just about to complain to Tommy about how he is so tired of weeding. He is just about to explain how much it scares him when the Runners’ are out in the Maze and they take longer than expected. But the second he opens his mouth to do so, fingers slide into his hair and begin to comb away. Newt instantly relaxes, all tension leaving him, and suddenly he feels content enough to sleep.
As he begins to drift off Newt mumbles a quiet, “‘Night Tommy.”
“Goodnight Newt.”
Newt half opens one eye. “Don’t be late again.”
“What? Oh,” Newt can hear the smile in Tommy’s voice. “Yes, okay, I won’t let it happen again.”
“Good.” There’s a pause, as Newt gets distracted by the sensation of Thomas’s hands in his hair. “Also…god I hate weeding, I never complain but…”
There’s a fond, airy chuckle thrown into the air. “I’ll work something out for you, love. No more weeding and waiting for us Runners’s again, alright?”
“Alright,” Newt replies, but it’s so muffled with sleep it’s barely comprehensible.
“Alright,” Thomas repeats.
Newt drifts to sleep, with the knowledge that Thomas is right there, to help him, to be the support he never knew he needed.
Tommy’s a really good friend.