Chapter Text
"Really? Seventeen? He acts so much older…" Thomas muttered, blinking a few times in surprise as he watched the boy named ‘Newt’ help with some sort of building project.
Minho laughed, his eyes turning into thin crescents as the Runner watched his expression turn to one of bemusement, and Thomas suddenly remembered that Newt had told him his age—the blonde had done so the day before, and Thomas had forgotten in his late-night, bonfire-muddled mind. Minho must’ve overheard and figured that he’d forget—why else would the Asian boy bring it up?
"Does he, now?" Chuck hummed, grinning up at him.
Thomas watched absently as Minho jogged off to who-knows-where, before turning his attention back to the kid beside him. Chuck was so sweet; Thomas hoped that the young boy would get to become a good man. "Yeah."
Chuck replied with a smile and a little huff-laugh. "I mean… he is kinda strict sometimes, so that might be part of it. But he’s just a seventeen-year-old, y’know?"
Thomas opened his mouth to agree, but Alby suddenly came up behind them, placing a sturdy hand on Thomas’s shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas noticed that the older Glader had done the same to Chuck.
When Alby spoke, his voice sounded purposefully light—as if trying to tack a fragile moth to a corkboard without hindering its ability to fly. "It’s a common joke around here, actually. You’ll hear lots of comments about how he’s got a heart older than himself."
Thomas felt his mind’s gears begin to turn, questions quickly filling his answerless reservoir. He could practically see the moth—except, where most people would admire the delicate way it had been displayed on the corkboard, all Thomas could see was the fact that it could no longer fly. No longer was it free, no longer could it remain unseen in a fragile pose of secrecy. "A heart… older than himself?"
Alby smiled kindly at him, but Thomas could see that the other teen knew he was aware of what hadn’t been said. "Yes. Most of the Gladers will say it’s just a joke, and to some extent, it’s just that: a joke."
Thomas felt the reservoir within his mind begin to overflow. "But it’s not just a joke, is it?"
"No," Alby conceded. "It’s not. Not always."
Thomas watched Chuck steadily grow more and more uncomfortable as the silence that followed Alby’s reply grew longer. After ten seconds or so, the young boy excused himself with a hasty smile and a small wave, leaving Thomas alone with Alby and—more dangerously—the moth.
"When?" Thomas asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Alby cocked his head to the side, seemingly perplexed by his cryptic question. "What?"
"When is it not a joke?" Thomas clarified.
"Oh."
A pause.
"What extent makes the joke… not a joke?" Thomas reiterated, his knee beginning to bounce with mounting anticipation as his suspicions were steadily confirmed the longer Alby chewed on his answer.
Newt had been through some shit, and he had the emotional scars to prove it.
That’s why he seemed so mature.
Alby seemed to recognize the moment Thomas figured it out himself, and just nodded and looked towards the great walls of the Maze, letting Thomas bask in the heavy, accompanied silence that his newly-burdened mind demanded.
The unhindered realization, the uncensored knowledge, the unadulterated unfairness of it all… every aspect of it served to make Thomas’s heart lurch with some brand of second-hand pain. A raw, cloying pain that would better fit a decaying carcass than someone’s delicate heart. A pain that left scars deeper than any weapon could.
And Thomas knew that what he felt was only second-hand.
And that made it so much worse.
Because Newt was only seventeen, yet he had such a battered Moth on his corkboard.