Archive of Our Own

When he opens his eyes, Thomas feels vertigo. He's aware he's lying on his back, over something mushy, but he feels like he's a hundred feet above the ground, he feels like he's going to free fall if he moves too fast. But when he takes a look around, turning his head slowly, carefully, with his eyes half closed, breath hitched in his throat, panic pinches his chest so sharply he can't help but bolt up abruptly.

He whines out loud when an acute pain goes through his body, from his stomach to his fingertips and toes, and he holds onto the first thing he can reach, twists rough blankets in his hands until his knuckles go white. It feels like he's going to fall down, his surroundings are spinning so fast he's close to throwing up.

He tries to steady his breathing, but the knot on his throat makes it impossible, and tears that he won't let fall make his eyes itch. It takes him probably two minutes to calm himself down enough to look around properly, but it feels like two agonizing hours, breathing is so hard his lungs burn.

The thing is, it looks so familiar to the Glade. Wherever he is right now, it gives him this feeling of claustrophobia, his feet shake with the strong need of running away. He's in a small hut, sitting on an uncomfortable bed, with grass and dust everywhere. The only difference is the salty air, the smell of the sea that was never present in the Glade, and the so much more hot and damp weather.

Thomas is afraid to get up, he feels so weak he doubts his knees can support the weight of his own body, but he's too curious to stay there waiting for someone to show up and help him. He needs to go out and find out if he's trapped between those four giant walls again. The sole thought of being back there feels like a nightmare, like a weight that's pushing his chest, threatening to crush his ribs. But in the back of his mind, there's a small hope, the chance that everything was just a dream, and he's back in the Glade, still caged, but with a white sheet in front of him, an unwritten story, a second chance to save everyone, this time.

The sharp pain in his stomach reminds him that there's no way he can go back in time, and there's a bundle of dark and desperate memories waiting for him in the back of his mind. He doesn't want to think about the last time he was conscious, about that city at war and everything that happened that frantic night. So he just takes a deep breath, lifts up his t-shirt to take a look at the wound in his stomach, and walks outside with unsteady feet.

It's overwhelmingly relieving, the sight of the wide blue sea opening in front of him, no walls cutting its way, the big mountains on the other side, the breeze on his face, even if it's so hot and damp it makes his clothes stick to his skin uncomfortably.

There's so many people there, so many huts, so much noise and life, he wonders how much time he spent unconscious, because he doesn't feel strong enough to start living again just now. As he walks to meet with these people, looking around, searching for familiar faces, he feels his own blood buzzing in his ears, anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach, he doesn't understand how they are able to keep going when they left so many others behind. But that's just life, isn't it? It doesn't wait for anyone. If you don't move, it abandons you. Newt's voice resounds in the back of his head, kind but serious, reminding him “You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin' up. Plain and simple” . The memory hits him so suddenly, so out of nowhere, it leaves him breathless. He just isn't feeling quite alive right now, isn't sure if he'll ever feel like that again.

The only thing that stops him from panicking again is the sight of Minho, walking towards him with the softest expression Thomas has ever seen in his face. They stand still for a while, only a few feet between them, and it hurts like hell, just looking at him. It hurts so much, because everything about him, from the dark circles under his eyes, to his sunken shoulders, to his trembling hands, everything screams defeat . And that's exactly how Thomas feels. They are alive, they should be feeling alive, but he feels like he's lost everything, and Minho is a mirror of himself.

So he takes a step forward and wraps his arms around his friend, pulls him into a tight hug that hopes will help them both breathe. Minho might look like a pale, fading version of the boy he once was, his fierceness and braveness lost between the pain and trauma, making him look so much softer and breakable than he actually is, but he still feels the same, as warm as ever. Thomas hides his nose in the crook of his neck, breathes him in, the most familiar scent in this foreign place, and he feels grounded for the first time since he opened his eyes. Thomas is pretty sure he wouldn't be able to keep going here if he had lost him, too. Minho pulls him even closer, he whispers “we're okay” , and it sounds like a white lie, but Thomas thinks that maybe, together, they will be able to fix each other, in the future.

He hugs Brenda next, and he's so incredibly relieved he didn't lose her either, it was so close. He spent the past six months with a cold fear creeping up his neck, he was terrified by the thought that one day he'd wake up to find her face taken over by black, swollen veins. And in that moment, when he's clinging onto her, Newt's face pops up behind his closed eyelids, and his legs would give up if Brenda wasn't there to hold him up.

“Hey, Thomas. Look at me, hey,” she whispers, pulling back, taking his face in her hands carefully, as if he's going to break if she's too rough, and Thomas hasn't felt more fragile in his life. “Stay here, yeah? You're okay, we're with you,” she says, with a fake but pretty smile, her hands still on Thomas's cheeks, so she can make sure his eyes are on her and don't travel somewhere else, somewhere deep into his memories, a place he will have to visit sooner or later, but scares him more than anything.

Thomas feels Minho's hand in the back of his neck, squeezing lightly, and he wonders if they are able to read his mind, or if they also see Newt's face flashing in front of their eyes every time they close their eyelids, if guilt crawls up their throats, makes them gasp pathetically.

He hugs Gally next, Jorge, Vince, Frypan... Other people who he can't recognize approach him to greet him, he sees a lot of familiar faces, but his head hurts too much to try to remember their names, his memory is a scary place right now.

He's suddenly so drained, and all he did was getting out of bed and greeting a few people. The pain in his stomach is constant and throbbing, as a reminder that even though everything is calm right now, there's still a deathly virus out there that's killing most of the human race, and could be helping them all. Instead, he's hiding here, in a place he doesn't know, pretending he will be able to call it home, some day.

“You've been out for almost a week,” Minho tells him, his arm coming around his shoulders, pulling him as close to his body as he can while they walk towards the sea. “Got me a little scared you wouldn't wake up.”

“I'm sorry you can't get rid of me easily,” Thomas tries to joke, but it's the first time he speaks since he woke up, and his voice sounds as ruined as he feels. Minho laughs anyway, squeeezs his shoulder, smiles softly at him.

“I can't believe I'm gonna have to put up with you even in a place they call Paradise.” And Thomas wants to laugh, desperately, but all he can offer is a crooked smile that he's sure looks like an ugly grimace. Minho just pulls him closer to himself.

---

Thomas spends that first day in this new place sitting in the sand, staring at the blue sea. Minho is next to him most of the time, trying to keep him distracted, he tells him about Paradise, how everything works so similarly to the Glade, how each person has one job assigned and they gather at night to eat together by a bonfire. Thomas is amazed by Minho's strength, doesn't understand how he hasn't drowned in memories yet.

He thinks the ocean is a nice metaphor for his own memories. It's so scary, the sea, so wild and unpredictable, you don't know what you can find if you deep down too far. He doesn't know what he'll remember once he gets brave enough to deep into his own brain.

So he just sits there, by the shore, with his feet sunk into wet sand, draws random patterns with his fingers, and blurs them as soon as they start to look like familiar names. He stays there until it's dark and his teeth start to clatter even though it isn't cold, he doubts it will ever be cold again in this world, but inside he's freezing.

Minho helps him stand up once their gathering starts, they sit together by the fire, their bodies pressed from knee to shoulder, and still, Thomas can't stop shaking.

Vince's speech hurts more than the bullet wound in his stomach, and it fucking sucks, because it's supposed to be hopeful and bright and happy . It's meant to make them feel better, to make Thomas feel like he will be able to start a new life. But what if he doesn't want to start one without those they left behind. He looks intently at the big stone that's behind Vince, the place they are supposed to carve the names of those who passed away on their way here, and he wishes he could crush it just by looking at it.

He still claps at the end of the speech, he claps and smiles softly at Sonya when she pats his knee in a way to show support, because the fact that he feels like he's constantly falling down doesn't mean he has to drag everyone else down with him.

“I think this can be a good place for us,” Minho mumbles a few minutes later, his gaze fixed in the fire. Thomas is so thankful he didn't call it home.

“I'm just glad it's quiet, you know?” Thomas says, and Minho nods, understanding, even though they are surrounded by over 100 people who won't stop chatting animatedly.

“I have something for you,” Minho takes something out of the pocket of his pants and hands it to Thomas. “You had it with you when you went unconscious, I have no idea what it is.”

Thomas takes the necklace, twists the black string between his fingers, and Newt's face shows up in his mind without a warning. He has to bite down on his lower lip to stop himself from screaming. He remembers it so clearly, Newt's wide open black eyes, shining with desperation and a hint of madness, the dark swollen veins eating away his face, with black, sticky liquid coming out of his mouth. Thomas thinks it should be a grotesque image, ugly and gross, but right now he'd give up everything he has to go back to that moment and cling onto Newt, hug him until that city at war burned them both down. He can't give up everything he has though, because he doesn't really own anything, not anymore.

He takes a deep breath and looks at the pendant, a cylinder tiny and metallic, and there's a smug of blood there, probably his, from the wound in his stomach. He tries to clean it up with his nails, but his hands are shaking too much.

“Do you want me to open it up for you?” Minho asks, and Thomas jumps a little, he was so lost in his own thoughts he almost forgot he was still by his side.

When he turns his head to look at his friend, the look in Minho's eyes feels like another bullet but through his chest. His expression is so wary and careful, as if he's waiting for Thomas to crumple at any moment, and it fucking sucks, that those around him have to worry about him even when the nightmare they were trapped in is supposed to be over. That's why he shakes his head and doesn't accept any help. He brings the necklace closer to his face, struggles with it, his hands shaking pathetically.

It takes Thomas around five minutes to finally open it and free the piece of paper that's inside, but Minho doesn't rush him, he just stares at him quietly and on guard, as if something is about to go terribly wrong.

And everything goes terribly wrong as soon as Thomas unfolds the paper and takes a look at it. He doesn't remember if he ever saw Newt's handwriting before, but it's so easily recognizable in that moment, as if the whole letter is screaming his name.

He desperately wants to read the whole thing, but he stops breathing at the first two words. Dear Tommy . Thomas wonders how Newt could talk to him in such kind way when he failed so miserably to save him. He gasps for air, feels like he's about to puke, he wants to hold onto something to keep himself grounded, but he can't tear his gaze away from the letter, he's too afraid he'll tear it apart if he moves, break it like he broke Newt. He remembers it so clearly, the weight of Newt's limp body in his tired arms, his legs looked like a puppet without strings, he remembers the defeated sobs he let out as Thomas tried to drag him through the city.

“Thomas,” Minho says, but Thomas can barely hear him, he's so far gone in his own memories everything's blurry around him. “Thomas, buddy, give me that, hey.” He barely registers Minho taking the letter and the necklace out of his hands, there are fingers in his nape, squeezing lightly, like it happened this morning when he was hugging Brenda. “C'mon pal, breathe.”

And Thomas hadn't even realized he had stopped breathing, there's just a buzzing noise in his ears, tangled with Teresa's voice, loud through speakers, telling him there's a chance for Newt. And he hadn't been able to take it.

Teresa's voice brings back the memory of her surprised face, falling from that endless building and into the flames. He looks down at his hands again, trembling uncontrollably, and wonders when he has become so weak. He used to be able to handle this, he didn't get all worked up over Chuck's memory even though it hurt three times more than the bullet wound on his stomach. And now here he is, all vulnerable, unable to speak or hear or see any further than his own memories, almost gagging with his own spit.

“Come on, Thomas. Dude, calm down.” Minho's voice sounds muffled in his ears, he barely feels his arms wrapping around him, his chest pressing against Thomas's back, moving steadily, the only solid thing in the middle of this mess. “Work with me, yeah? I know you can breathe with me. Together, okay?”

Thomas closes his eyes tightly, tries not to think about the last time he asked someone to work with him, when he asked Newt to walk through that burning city together, even though Newt was slowly losing himself. He presses his hands to Minho's and breathes in deeply, matching the rhythm of his friend's chest, focusing on the words he's whispering instead of the loud buzzing noise in his own head.

“You're okay, you're okay, you're okay…” Minho repeats over and over again, like a mantra, as if he isn't only trying to convince Thomas but himself. And he is okay, Thomas thinks, but does it even matter when he lost so many people along the way?

It takes him a few minutes that feel like hours, but Thomas finally calms himself down, rests his whole weight against Minho's warm chest. He doesn't even reply when Minho asks him if he's okay, he's too worn out to try to talk. He keeps his eyes closed, can feel Minho's hands on his neck, tying the necklace there.

“I'll let you keep this, but you have to promise me you won't try to read it unless I'm around,” he says, softly into his ear, as if he's afraid he'd set off another panic attack if he spoke too loud. And he probably would, Thomas admits to himself.

He tries to reply, but he can't find his voice, his mouth tastes stale and bitter. So he just nods and leans forward, freeing Minho from the weight of his body. He hasn't felt like such a burden in his entire life.

“C'mon man, you need to get some rest, tomorrow's gonna be long.” Thomas just nods and lets Minho pull him up, drape an arm around his waist and help him walk towards his hut.

He wants to say something so badly. It's the first time he can properly talk to Minho since he was taken by WCKD, if Thomas's mind is full of obscure scenes from the night in the Last City, Minho's might be filled with ugly memories of whatever they did to him for six long months. But he can't make himself speak. It's so frustrating, physically painful, how much he wants to tell his friend that he missed him, that he's sorry it took him so long to rescue him, that he's there for him, even if he looks useless right now and seems like he can't even handle himself, he's there. Thomas wants to tell him he's thankful Minho still puts up with him and doesn't blame him for everything, even though they lost so many people because of him.

He can't bring himself to say anything, the only thing he can do is squeeze Minho's shoulder once he's already lying in his new bed, he offers him a broken smile and hopes he understands.

---

Thomas can't sleep. It shouldn't come as a surprise, given the fact that it literally terrifies him to close his eyes when he's alone, but he's so drained, mentally and physically. He feels bruised all over. He's so goddamn tired of feeling so wasted, and he's been awake for a day only.

He doesn't know for how long he's been in his hut, lying on bed, staring at the black emptiness, listening to the life outside quieting little by little until the only thing he can hear is the ocean, waves crashing against the shore. And it should be relaxing, the sound of the water, but it gives him goosebumps, the bad kind, makes him feel like something is approaching to ruin this apparent calm he's found himself into. His tired mind has the power to turn the sound of waves into the metallic sound of a griever.

He sits up in bed, decides he can't stay there wide awake just waiting for sleep to make him so weak he can't escape his own memories anymore. It feels like the necklace tied around his neck is burning against his skin. Thomas wants it to leave a permanent scar.

When he gets up of bed he feels dizzier and colder than ever. He finds his old jacket draped over the back of a chair in a corner of the hut. When he puts it on, it smells like fire and blood and he feels so sick all of a sudden he has to bend over to stop himself from puking. He doesn't take it off though, he's shaking so much he'd probably freeze to death if he walked outside only in a thin t-shirt. He's aware the weather isn't cold at all, and he feels so incredibly exposed and raw.

Before he gets out of the hut he looks at his still trembling hands and, as he gets them into the pockets of his jacket, he wonders if his pulse will ever be stable again. His left hand touches something cold, hard and smooth, he curls his fingers around it carefully, a wave of realization mixed with a little bit of fear washes over him when he feels the cylindrical shape. He curls his fingers around the tube and walks outside.

On his way to the beach, Thomas gives the big stone just one short look, it had been put there that same night, and it was already so full of names, it made him sick, he felt guilt crawling up his chest and scraping his throat.

He doesn't realize he got out of the hut barefoot until he reaches the shore and feels the cold water against his feet, it's refreshing, because even though it seems he can't stop shivering, the weather is so warm and damp it's stifling, and Thomas is suffocating enough just with his thoughts. He doesn't even know why he's standing there, doesn't even know what time it is, but it's easier to breathe once he can stare around himself to prove nothing is coming to threaten his life.

Only then he feels safe and strong enough to take the serum out of his pocket. It's kinda amazing, in a horrifying way, how that tiny tube can wake up the darkest memories. Suddenly the wound in his back and stomach hurts as if he had just gotten shot again, he sees Janson's face so clearly, as if he's standing right in front of him, over the water, pointing a gun to his head. And the thought of a gun takes him back to Newt, straddling him, gun aiming to his own temple. The fear that rushed through Thomas at that moment was bleak, the sole thought of losing Newt made him shake from head to toe, made his muscles go all tense, but at the same time he felt as unstable as a house of cards. But now, Newt was gone for real, and the despair he felt was so harsh, every single part of him was aching. He almost wanted that imaginary version of Jansen to pull the trigger.

If only he had been cleverer. WCKD used to say he was the most intelligent out of all their subjects, but he felt so useless now, why would he want intelligence if it hadn't helped him to win enough time to help Newt. To save Newt.

Thomas tightens his grip on the tube, he's burning with want of crushing it with his own fingers. Teresa had died for this, in a desperate, last attempt to prove she was trustworthy, to show Thomas she just wanted to help everyone, to help Newt too. And it all had been useless, because Thomas hadn't been able to stop Newt, because Thomas had been too slow, too stupid, he hadn't been enough. And now he could never tell Teresa that he forgives her, that he needs her, that he feels so lost, without the only connection he had to his past, to his childhood. There's a part of him that's missing, and he will never be able to find it, anywhere.

Teresa had given up her life for his, and for Newt's, in a way, for this serum. And it all had been in vain. And now it was irreversible. Guilt was eating him alive, Thomas kinda wanted it to devour him completely, make him disappear.

Thomas throws the tube into the water with as much strength and as he's capable of, and it's physically painful to suppress the scream that's scratching his throat, but he doesn't want to wake everyone up with one of his crises and feel even more guilty than he already does. He just stares at the water and hopes the tide will take that tube far away from there, hopes the ocean can drown his guilt with it.

He feels so damn exhausted suddenly, it's funny how your own thoughts and feelings can drain you to the point you feel like you could sleep for three weeks straight, but keep you up at night anyway, wearing you out restlessly.

Thomas stops by the big stone on his way back to his hut. He presses a hand to it, more to support himself than for anything else, his tiredness makes his whole body ache, he feels like his knees are going to give up at any moment. The rock is cold under his palm, it's probably the only thing in this new place that's cold apart from the water and himself. He scans the names written there as fast as he can, and he can put a face to most of them, faces he's sure will haunt him until the day he dies, and the worst part is that he deserves it. He deserves every single painful jab of culpability that hits his chest.

It's kind of relieving but also sad when he realizes no one has carved Newt's and Teresa's names in the stone yet. He wonders if anyone has even considered carving Teresa's name, if they think she deserves it, if they think about her at all, and the thought of everyone remembering her as a traitor, or not remembering her at all, hurts almost as much as her death. And he wants to lean down, take the dagger that's resting on the floor beside the stone, and carve her name himself, but he feels like he'll fall down if he tries to lean down.

And Newt's name. Just thinking about it feels as if someone just stabbed him with that same dagger. He misses him so damn much, he wouldn't be able to write down his name if he tried, his hands shake too much just by remembering him. He can't even bring himself to say it out loud without guilt choking him.

It's weird that no one else has carved his name yet, Thomas thought that was the first thing Minho would do once Vince told them what the stone was for. And in that moment it strikes him, how selfish he's being right now, towards Minho, and towards everyone else. Maybe the thought of Newt makes everyone's chest hurt too much to move. Just because Minho has been awake this week he's been unconscious doesn't mean it's gotten any easier to him. Thomas knows that if he can't write down Newt's name right now, he won't be able to do it in a week. Doesn't know if he will be able to do it ever again. God damn it, he couldn't even look at it at the end of the letter. He feels like his necklace is strangling him.

Thomas tries to sink his nails in the stone, tries to scratch it, damage it in some way, but he just ends up hurting himself. He wants it to be gone so bad. He wants everyone to be back so bad. He wants to hug Newt so bad he's suffocating.

All of a sudden there's a hand on his shoulder, and he turns around so fast he almost falls down. He closes his fist and hits whatever is threatening him even before he can look at it.

“Hey, buddy, calm down!” a familiar voice screams. There are hands grabbing his wrists, immobilizing him against the rock “Thomas, it's me.”

His eyes focus and Minho's face appears in front of him, there's a worried wrinkle between his brows, his eyes are full of concern and confusion. Thomas lets his head loll back against the stone, he takes a deep breath meant to stop his heart for trying to run out of his chest.

“What are you even doing here?” Minho asks as he lets go of his wrists slowly.

“I could be asking the same question,” he says, looking down at his hands. He takes his left wrist into his right hand, opens and closes his fists, stares at his trembling fingers in disappointment.

“I couldn't sleep, nothing new,” Minho mumbles, then asks “Did I hurt you?” Thomas shakes his head, but deep down he wishes he had hurt him, he feels like he deserves it. He deserves a punch in the face for being so damn selfish, for worrying Minho like this when clearly he needs help, too.

Minho has lost his two best friends on his way here. Thomas doesn't know how long it's been since Alby's death, but it's engraved in his memories as if it had happened earlier today. Minho had to be trapped in WCKD and away from Newt for six months, and the day they reunited was the day Newt died. Minho spent three years of his life with Newt and Alby, and with so many other gladers that passed away. Partly because of Thomas. He admires Minho so much, doesn't understand how he's still standing after everything he had to go through, while he can't even make himself stop shaking pathetically.

He pulls Minho into a hug, ignores the surprised sound he makes and clings onto him for dear life. He breathes him in, closes his eyes and hugs him as tightly as he can. He's afraid he'll get another anxiety attack if he tries to speak, so this is his way to tell him thank you, and I'm sorry, and I'm here, and you won't lose me too . He wonders how many hours of sleep Minho has gotten in this past week, if Thomas isn't able to fall asleep because the memory of one single night won't let him, Minho has six awful months tormenting him. Thomas doesn't even know what happened during those months.

“Thomas, you need to get some sleep, yeah?” Minho says softly, pulling away from him “Tomorrow's gonna be intense, you need to rest for a bit.”

He kind of wants to put up a fight, say he won't be sleeping until Minho sleeps too, but he guesses he's fucked up enough for a day, and the least he can do is stop worrying Minho for a few hours. So he lets him guide him to his hut once again, hugs him one more time, and lets the nightmares drag him down.

---

He almost punches Minho again the next morning when he wakes him up. He isn't sure if he was in the middle of a nightmare or a memory, he remembers he was trying to free Newt, his body trapped under a crank, when something shook him awake, and his first instinct was to attack. Minho has to pin his wrist to the bed until Thomas is able to fully wake up and control his breathing.

“Is this our new tradition?” Minho asks, smiling lightly, his eyes the shape of half moons “Are we gonna meet like this all the time?” Thomas just offers the best smile he can manage right now and gets up.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, or scare you,” he forces himself to say, because if he wants to be there for Minho, he has to try to go back to normal, to pretend he's normal at least, even if he won't stop stumbling on the inside. He can't stay quiet forever, even if lately even speaking is a huge effort.

“It's cool man, I know what it's like to wake up from a nightmare.” Minho looks so understanding, and Thomas hates it. He shouldn't have to know what it's like to feel the way Thomas does, he doesn't deserve to feel any pain at all. Thomas wishes he could fix it, he wants to fix Minho more than he wants to fix himself.

“Okay, listen,” Minho keeps saying as he drapes an arm around Thomas's shoulder and leads him out of his hut. “I told you yesterday. Today's gonna be intense, I wasn't kidding, okay? You gotta promise me you'll try to stay as calm as possible.”

Thomas wonders how is he supposed to stay calm when he can't stop shaking when literally nothing is happening. He doesn't say anything though, he just gives Minho a confused look and follows him until they stop in front of a hut that looks exactly the same as all the others. Thomas swears he's never seen Minho as nervous as he seems now, fidgeting with his fingers and biting at his already chapped lips.

“Look, I didn't tell you yesterday because you were to unstable,” he puts a hand on Thomas's shoulder and squeezes lightly, looking at him intently. “Vince said it was better if you didn't know anything until we made sure everything was going to be okay. After seeing how gone you were yesterday, we knew you wouldn't handle it if something went wrong.”

“Can you tell me what's going on already?” Thomas almost pleads. “You told me to stay calm, but you aren't contributing.”

“I spoke to Vince last night after I found you freaking out by the stone. We decided it's safe to tell you know, we're pretty sure everything will go right, so-”

“Minho, I don't understand a thing you're saying.” Thomas has to close his hands into fists and get them inside his pockets, he's shaking so much, he's afraid they'll keep hiding whatever it is from him if they realize he has zero control over himself, right now.

Minho just looks at him for a while, as if he's evaluating him. He presses his lips into a worried line, swallows hard and pats Thomas shoulder, then he motions the hut with his head, and opens it so they can step inside.

Thomas feels like the world is spinning backwards. He feels like he just stepped into a dream. Suddenly everything around him is blurry and soft and round. Suddenly there's no noise in his head. Suddenly his lungs feel too big for his own body, he can feel his heart pounding on his throat, on his wrists, behind his eyes. He sinks his nails into his own hands until he can feel enough pain to prove this isn't part of cruel dream.

“Hey, I got you,” Minho says, and he sounds so distant even though Thomas can feel his hands on his shoulders, as if he's trying to make sure he doesn't fall down. Thomas can't even feel the ground underneath him.

He can't tear his eyes away from the bed in the middle of the hut. From Newt. Lying there, his skin smooth and as pretty as always. His chest rising and falling steadily. Looking healthy as ever. Thomas has the terrible feeling he's about to wake up, and he wants to throw up.

“He's healing. Unconscious just like you've been all this time. The wound in his chest was worse than your gunshot though, we were worried he wouldn't wake up, that's why at first Vince didn't want to tell you anything.” Minho keeps talking, and all Thomas can do is gape and try not to stop breathing “We don't have real doctors here, you know? Told ya it's kind of like the Glade, that included. But we're pretty sure he'll be fine.”

“Can I?” Thomas asks, and he doesn't know if he asked it out loud or the question just sounded on his head, but he takes one shaky hand out of his pocket and approaches the bed with unsteady feet, Minho always behind him to pick him up in case he falls down.

He places his hand on Newt's neck softly, scared he might vanish if he presses too hard. He's so warm to the touch, his skin is so smooth, there's no trace of the ugly dark veins that were eating him alive that terrifying night in the Last City. Thomas can feel his pulse under the pad of his fingers, and a choked whine escapes his throat.

Newt looks so peaceful, Thomas wonders if he's actually at peace or if he's being haunted by nightmares too. He feels so relieved and so sick at the same time, it's an ugly combination, happiness and guilt swirling so fast on his stomach he feels like he's going to faint. Newt is alive, but he's like this because of him, and once he wakes up he'll live haunted by nightmares, because of him, too.

A syringe filled up with blue liquid is resting on a small bedside table, and when it catches Thomas's eye it's like the world starts spinning out of control.

“Is that-” he tries, his tongue is too heavy in his own mouth, he can't help but trip over his own words. “Gally. The serum he took. Is- is that it?”

“Yeah, yes,” Minho affirms, he tightens his grip on Thomas's shoulders. “It's working pretty well. Vince told me Newt's gonna need a shot every two months, he talks out of experience.”

“How much,” he demands, finally taking his eyes off of Newt's sleeping face to look at Minho, he knows he sounds harsh, but he feels terrified. “How much do we have.”

“Mhm, around 35 maybe?” Minho replies, and he sound defeated, Thomas despises it. “For 6 years.”

Thomas's mind goes blank suddenly, he doesn't know where his strength comes from, probably out of his self hatred, but he pushes Minho away from him and runs out of the hut. Every single muscle and bone of his body is screaming at him, aching so much it's almost unbearable, but it doesn't stop him. He runs as fast as he can, as if he was back in the maze, until he reaches the water.

He remembers he doesn't even know how to swim once he's already too far to go back, if he ever learned, the memory is lost with everything else WCKD stole from him. It's so overwhelming, the water is getting into his mouth and his nose, he can feel it inside of him, trying to choke him as he looks around, looking for that small tube he threw last night, even if he knows his effort is useless. He feels hopeless, worthless.

For a second, Thomas truly thinks this is the end for him. It's kinda sad, this ending, after everything he's gone through, but he'd be lying if he said the thought of everything coming to an end isn't comforting. Minho gets to him in time though, because he isn't like Thomas, who is always a bit too late to everything that actually matters, he's always there, never fails, like a lifesaver.

Once Minho gets him out of the water he coughs until his throat is in flames and his lungs beg him to stop, he coughs out water and tries to cough out all the blame that's pooling in his stomach.

“Thomas, what the fuck was that? Do you want to give me a fucking heart attack?” Minho screams, and the only thing that makes Thomas feel better is that he sounds more angry than worried. Thomas doesn't deserve pity, he deserves another bullet through his back.

“I messed up,” he says, voice ruined for all the coughing. “I could've- I could've saved him this time,” and it feels like a throbbing pain everywhere, admitting it out loud, that he got a second chance and he still managed to fuck it up.

“What are you talking about?” Minho puts a hand on Thomas's nape and tries to massage it like he did other times before to get him to calm down. Thomas swaps his hand away, he doesn't deserve this kind of treatment.

“My blood is the cure, you heard it, right? Teresa.” he says, panting, his mouth tastes like salt and desperation “She gave me a tube of serum. In the Last City. I threw it into the water last night.”

Realization hits Minho like a slap in the face, his eyes go so wide, his skin so pale. He just stays quiet, takes his eyes away from Thomas to stare at the wide sea, and Thomas can read the word defeat in every single edge of his body. He hates himself.

We knew you wouldn't handle it if something went wrong , Minho had said. Thomas wouldn't handle it if he lost Newt a second time. And he was going to lose him a second time, he had a fucking deadline, and it was all his fault, again. He felt like he had killed him for a second time even if he hadn't even killed him once. His hands are clean, but they feel so bloody, he sinks his nails into his palms, wants to tear off his own skin.

---

They have a meeting later that day, they gather in a bigger hut that looks so much like the Council Hall they had in the Glade, it gives Thomas that claustrophobic feeling he got when he woke up for the first time here.

There aren't many people in the hut, just Thomas's closest friends and the two guys that pretend they are doctors here, like the med-jacks in the Glade. Still, Thomas feels exposed and raw, as if they are all getting ready to judge him. It stings, considering he's surrounded by those he trusts the most.

He keeps moving nervously as Minho explain what happened with the actual cure for the Flare, he keeps bouncing on his heels, his arms wrapped tightly around his own body, like an armor, as if he's trying to protect himself from these people, who aren't even attacking him. He's paranoid.

“Okay, here's what we're gonna do,” Vince says once Minho is done, and he sounds bitter. “We're gonna gather those who know how to dive and we'll ask them to look for that tube. We'll keep searching every morning for a couple of weeks, alright?” He looks at Thomas intently, then at Minho, lastly at Frypan, as if he's waiting for them to fight him. “If we can't find it by then, we'll quit. We'll try to figure it out any other way.”

“How are we supposed to figure this out any other way? There aren't more options, we gotta find it.” Thomas is aware his voice sounds angrier and steadier than he actually feels. He isn't trying to put up a fight, but Vince's statement sounds like he's already giving up, and he can't stand that. “We can try to go back to the Last City, maybe there's some remaining serum, or actual doctors still alive…”

He trails off, feels like his lungs are closing up. Vince and Jorge's eyes are so focused on him, they burn his skin. He wants to run away until his legs give out.

“Do you remember what happened the last time you went out on one of your little adventures?” Vince points at him with an accusatory finger, Thomas feels like a fucking criminal. “We lost so many people already, if Newt is like this right now is partly because you chose to risk lives to save one man.”

There are so many twisted and different emotions twirling on Thomas's stomach, he has to take a few steps back to lean against the wall. He can take it, all the blame, the whole accusation, it feels like a punch in his chest, but he can take it. He's the first one who blames himself, for everything. But Vince talks as if part of this was also Minho's fault, as if Minho didn't deserve everything they did to rescue him. Thomas can't take that.

“Leave him out of this,” his voice is stained with rage as he reaches out a hand towards Minho, puts it on his shoulder protectively.

“That city is destroyed, Thomas.” Jorge pushes Vince back a bit and gives him a wary look before he focuses on Thomas again. “I know you want to help your friend more than anything, you've always been like this. I get it. I'd do the same for Brenda. But we have to be clever. There's nothing left there, just ruined buildings, ashes and cranks.”

“And what are we supposed to do, then? Just give up?” Minho's tone is far harsher and angrier than Thomas's, without a hint of weakness or doubt, just pure indignation.

“We can try other ways,” Jorge affirms. “We can research, the doctors can try to imitate the serum we already have, mix it up with Thomas's blood. We'll think of something, we'll figure it out eventually.”

“These shanks aren't even real doctors!” Minho screams frustrated, pointing to the new med-jacks. Thomas finds himself lifting his hand to his friend's nape, massaging it to calm him down, keep him grounded, just like he does with Thomas when he's losing it. He can feel Minho relaxing under his fingertips, they work pretty well together. They always have. “We have no resources, no tools, no experts, nothing to figure out how to make an actual cure. Yes, we have Thomas's blood, but we have no idea where to start.”

“But we can try,” Brenda breaks in then, her eyes are shining with hope, it makes Thomas feel a little better. “Harriet, Sonya, even Vince saw how Mary prepared the serum when the Right Arm was still a thing. Maybe they are able to remember at some point, maybe we can come up with something.”

“This won't work,” Thomas lets his hand fall from Minho's neck to thread his fingers through his hair. “I fucked up Newt's last chance. I know it. And I can't do anything to fix it. I guess we'll just wait. Six years until Newt goes nuts.”

Again , he thinks, but doesn't say it. Newt's face that terrible night is back on his mind, the black veins taking over his skin, his eyes wide open and dark, cloudy by fear and madness. Thomas can hear his voice so clearly, as if Newt is whispering to him in this exact moment. Kill me, please. I'm sorry, Tommy. I'm sorry.

Thomas can't go through that again, he feels like he'll go mad with Newt.

“Have a little bit of hope, alright?” Gally speaks, bringing Thomas back to the present. “Maybe we'll find a way to work out the cure. Maybe we'll find the fucking serum in the water. I know it's difficult, but try to stay positive.” He doesn't understand how someone can ask him such thing. How is he supposed to stay positive when every idea they have seems to end in a closed door.

He feels like he'll end up suffocating if he stays in that hut, with so many eyes staring at him, waiting for him to crack. He turns around and leaves without saying a word to anyone. He wants to lock himself in Newt's hut and scream at him how sorry he is, even if it won't fix anything. Wants to beg him to wake up and tell him to stopping being a big fucking mess, because he won't be able to fix anything if he's this out of control. But he was never able to control himself without Newt working sense into his head.

Someone grabs him by the wrist before he can get to Newt's hut, and he turns around ready to tell Minho to leave him alone for a few hours. But it's Gally the one that's standing there, straight-faced, furrowed eyebrows, eyes hard as a rock, impossible to read.

Thomas has the strong want of pushing him away. He sees Chuck every time he looks at Gally, lying on the floor, blood soaking his shirt, his baby face emotionless. But he suppresses that want, breathes in deep and reminds himself it wasn't Gally's fault. It was WCKD's fault. It's always the same, it's either WCKD or Thomas's fault, no one else's.

“You need to get your shit together, Thomas.” Gally says it as if it was simple. It isn't a request, neither is a demand, it's just a fact, something Thomas has to do as soon as possible. He lets out a choked, incredulous laughter.

“Easier said than done,” he mumbles as he shakes his wrist out of Gally's hand. He balls his fingers into fists and gets them inside of his pockets to try to stop himself from shaking, again.

“I know how hard it is, okay?” Gally takes a step closer, points at Thomas with a finger, it looks threatening, but it's probably all in Thomas's paranoid mind. “I know what it's like to feel guilty every single second. I know what it's like to carry with a death of an innocent on your shoulders. I know what it's like to have nightmares every single fucking day. But do you see me moping around everywhere.”

Thomas can't say a thing, he's struck with how selfish he's being once again. Because this isn't only about Minho. Everyone else here has gone through their own particular nightmare, everyone else here has dark memories that haunt them at night, and he hasn't asked a single person how they are since he woke up. But how is he supposed to listen to everyone else when he can't even listen to his own thoughts without breaking down?

“Listen here, I know you feel like shit for what happened to Newt, we all do, even the people that wasn't there, believe me.” Thomas can feel his heart beating on his throat at the mention of Newt's name, he bites his lips to stop them from chattering. “We did everything we could to save him. And we did save him. We've got a second chance here. Do not give up so easily. Stop being sorry for himself and try to be strong for him. He'd beat your ass if he was awake, you know that.”

Thomas just nods and hopes he doesn't start crying right there. He wants to be strong for Newt, desperately. But the back of his mind keeps playing the worst case scenarios, he keeps hearing Newt's voice in his mind over and over again, begging him to kill him. Thomas feels so sick, because he knows he is what Newt needs, the cure is in his own blood, but he can't actually get to it. He's the solution but at the same time he's useless. And he keeps fucking up every step he takes. He's chaos, he just wants to rip his own skin.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't trust himself to talk. But he promises himself to tell Gally one day that he doesn't blame him for Chuck's death, not anymore. He only blames himself, for not seeing it coming, for not stopping Chuck when he could. For being too slow, as always.

---

Thomas soon realizes that Minho is like the leader in this new community they created, Brenda is his right hand. It hits him as a big surprise, he was sure Jorge and Vince would be in charge, since they are pretty much the only adults around, but they are too busy diving everyday, looking for the serum and making sure they don't run out of supplies.

It suits Minho, the role of the leader. In a way, it's karma, Thomas guesses, giving him what he deserves after Thomas basically stole Minho's role as the leader in the Scorch.

It's refreshing seeing Minho in charge, he seems to have everything under control, always with a kind smile on his lips but ready to smack anyone who doesn't do their part of the job. And Brenda is always by his side, fierce and reliable. Thomas is so glad Minho can count on her while he is being such a useless friend.

The only bad part about Minho being the leader is that he doesn't let Thomas do anything, not yet, not until he's completely healed, he had said. Thomas doubts he'll ever heal.

So he spends most of his time in Newt's hut, and it's more torturing than comforting, but there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

He likes to stare at Newt: his face, his expression soft and peaceful in his sleep; his chest, raising and falling steadily, probably the steadiest thing in Thomas's life at the moment; his skin, smooth, glowing and warm.

It's relaxing, Thomas thinks, the only moment he feels actually calm is when he's staring at Newt and it sinks in that he's there for real, he's back. He's alive.

But after a while, it turns into a nightmare. Thomas's mind starts playing tricks: black veins eat away Newt's face; dark, mushy liquid slides down his chin; whimpers leave his mouth. Thomas is struck with those gross memories, Newt's limp weight on his arms, as a broken toy, as Thomas tries to drag him though the Last City. Desperation fills up Thomas's chest in such an abrupt way he thinks it's gonna crush his lungs. He feels sick, but he can never look away, he's afraid Newt's gonna vanish.

Thomas talks to him, sometimes, late at night, when everything is quiet and there's no way he can shush his own thoughts, so he can't fall asleep. Minho can't sleep either, he's always sitting by Newt's bed when Thomas gets into the hut, and he leaves them alone without asking any questions, Thomas is so thankful, he wishes he could find the words to tell him that everyday.

It never gets too deep, their talks, one sided always, because Newt can't reply, not yet at least. Thomas is afraid of voicing the things he truly wants to say, stuff he truly wants to apologize for, because it's terrifying just thinking about it, he doesn't think he would be able to handle the words coming out of his own mouth. So he tells Newt about his day, because he doesn't remember how he knows this, but rumors has it people can still listen when they are unconscious. So he rambles about what's going on in Paradise, only the good parts, even though is basically always the same story, and if Newt was awake he would tell him to shut up because he's boring him to death. But the thought that Newt is listening to him is comforting. Thomas even forces himself to sound collected and firm, doesn't let his voice waver at any moment, in case that can worry Newt, even in his sleep.

Thomas would give up anything for a reply, he never thought you could miss a voice to the point it would become physically painful.

–--

It's been almost three weeks since he woke up when Thomas overhears a conversation between Vince and Minho that makes his blood boil under his skin.

Vince wants to give up, wants to stop looking for the serum. Minho understands him, because they've been swimming for so many days and they've always got out of the water empty handed, even though it feels like they've looked everywhere at least three times. It's so frustrating, Minho gets it, but he pleads Vince to keep trying for a little longer.

That's the only reason Thomas doesn't break into their conversation screaming at the top of his lungs, because he trusts Minho, knows he would never give up on Newt, he'd learn to swim and dive in himself everyday just to keep trying.

Thomas thought he was getting better, slowly, but steadily, at least he doesn't have a panic attack per day, and he can get a few hours of sleep at night, even though he always dreams, always nightmares. His hands can't stop shaking, though. He can't stop feeling cold. The faces of his dead friends keep flashing before his eyes every time he closes them for more than five seconds. But he thought he was making progress, he thought he was somehow regaining control of himself.

This conversation sets him off, though. He can't do much, he has no idea how to swim, the wound in his stomach and back hasn't healed yet, but he just knows he has to move . His chest feels so heavy, the fact that all of this is his fault, the fact that he's the cure but no one knows how to use him, the fact that he isn't doing anything to fix it, it all hangs over him, threatening to crush him down at any moment.

So one night he asks Minho to stay with Newt, he goes to the beach barefoot and strolls along the shore. He can barely see anything, it's already so dark, almost everyone has gone to sleep, but he has the small hope the tide has brought the serum closer and he will step on it at any time.

He can't stop shivering, he's already cold without sinking his feet into freezing water, now he's shaking so much he can barely bite his nails without hurting himself. His hands are ruined, he doesn't even remember when he started to bite his nails and fingers, to the point some of his fingers are bloody, he just knows it helps him cope with anxiety, and at the same time it's a reminder of his bloody hands that night Chuck died for him. It feels so far away already, he would never forgive himself if he forgot about it. He will never forgive himself as long as he remembers it either, but he doesn't deserve forgiveness.

“Slim yourself, Tommy” Thomas stops so abruptly at the sound of that voice he almost falls into the water.

He turns around slowly to find Newt standing there, close to the shore, but where the water can't reach his shoes. There are dark bags under his eyes even though he's been unconscious for almost four weeks, he looks even thinner than he already was, with his collarbones peeking out the collar of his old beige shirt, and Thomas has the sudden urge of covering him up so he won't catch a cold, but then he remembers it's actually hot all the time, even if he keeps shaking. But Newt is trembling, too, he can see it in his arms, stretched by his sides, his hands are closed in fists, hidden under the cloth of his shirt. He's pale, he looks dead tired, almost as if he's about to fade. But his skin is clean and clear, no trace of black, and he's alive .

Thomas is taken aback to a moment lost in his memory, back in WCKD, when Janson had just announced Newt wasn't immune. He remembers the cold, sharp fear running down his back, remembers how he had to lean forward to stop himself from falling down. Remembers Newt's voice behind him: Tommy, slim yourself . And he remembers his own reply: Slim myself? That old shank just said you're not immune to the Flare .

He wanted to fight Newt so bad, back then. He needed to make him see how terrible it was the sole idea of losing him to the virus, how important his life was, how much he actually meant to Thomas, even though he hadn't even realized how much until that exact moment.

And now, now that they had already gone through all that, through the Flare, and war, and hell, he wanted to fight him just as bad. He wanted to scream at him, how was he supposed to slim himself when Newt had a countdown to his death that wouldn't stop? Did Newt even know this?

But Thomas couldn't even move.

“What the hell are you doing in the water? You're shaking Tommy, you're bloody freezing,” Newt says exasperatedly, pointing at Thomas's feet with this head.

Thomas gapes at him, he looks down at his feet, then back up at Newt. He blinks a couple of times, waiting for this mental image to vanish suddenly, but it won't. The palms of his hands are itching, he wants to reach out and try to touch Newt, see if he's actually tangible or if his hand will go through his body, as if he was a ghost. But he's still paralyzed, he can only try to swallow his heart down, he can feel it beating frantically on his throat.

“I was- I. I just-” he tries to reply but fails miserably, suddenly he's shivering so much his teeth are clattering.

“I know what you're doing, you bloody idiot,” Newt puffs, he takes a step closer, his shoes get soaked when a wave crashes, but he doesn't seem to care, he won't take his eyes off of Thomas. “You're looking for the serum, aren't you? Probably over thinking and blaming yourself in that tiny brain of yours,” he points to his own head with a finger, and if his hand wasn't shaking, Thomas would've thought he was perfectly fine, totally healed, and not broken, crooked, like he is.

“How do you even know-?” Thomas cuts himself, he isn't even sure what he wants to say, he just wants to touch Newt, prove that this is actually happening, that it isn't a cruel prank his own brain is pulling on him. But he's so clumsy for these things, he doesn't know if he's allowed to reach out, doesn't know if Newt is mad at him, if he hates him. He should, Thomas thinks. “Could you hear me? While you were...”

“Of course I couldn't.” Newt frowns as if Thomas just said the dumbest thing he's ever heard, and he probably did, but he hoped all his endless, boring speeches would've helped Newt somehow. “Minho was there when I woke up, he summed up everything that happened to me, I came out here because I knew you'd be up for something stupid.”

“I think this is the second time you insult me in a span of two minutes,” Thomas points out, even though he isn't sure if he got the time right, everything seems to be going on slow motion to him, too slow for his liking.

“Minho told me it's what you deserve, you bloody dumbfuck,” Newt points at him with an accusatory, shaky finger. He takes a step closer, he's so close Thomas could touch him if he was brave enough to try. He feels like he can't breathe, but in a good way, for the first time in weeks, in an awed way, instead of panicked. “You've been basically torturing yourself all these days. I would kick your ass if I wasn't so bloody weak and pathetic.”

A small whine leaves Thomas's lips at those words, he sees so much of himself in Newt, and he feels so incredibly sad. He knows what it's like to feel frail and pitiful, useless and unsteady, he wishes Newt wouldn't have to go through any of this. He's gone through so much already, Thomas can't quite believe he's actually standing right in front of him. He's so damn sad, but so fucking relieved at the same time, he can't take the distance anymore.

He doesn't know if it's the right move, but stops thinking and takes a step further to cling onto Newt. He wraps his arms around Newt's slim waist, clutches his shirt between his fingers so tightly his knuckles go white, hides his nose in the crook of his neck, breathes him in. He smells just like he did back in the glade, like cinnamon and sunshine and Newt . He smells like home, in a way, even though Thomas has never had a place to call home, doesn't really know how home is supposed to smell like.

When Newt wraps his arms carefully around his shoulders, Thomas feels warm for the first time since he woke up in this new place, even though they can't stop shaking, together.

---

Thomas forces himself to get better. Or, at least, to look like he's getting better.

He knows Newt better than the back of his hand. He's so incredibly selfless, that's partly why he almost died in the Last City, he pushed himself over the edge just so he could make sure he could see Minho safe and sound. Only thinking about it hurts, how Newt would put his life before those he loves in the blink of an eye. That's why Thomas decides to put Newt before himself.

Thomas doesn't want Newt to worry about him, not when his days are limited. He wants him to live as carefree as possible. So he decides to stop moping around, like Gally had said.

And it's surprisingly easier than he thought. And it's all because of Newt.

Thomas still gets nightmares and sleep paralysis, he can't get rid of the nasty images in his head not even when he's awake, he can't bury his memories no matter how hard he tries, he still finds himself curled in the corner of his hut unable to breathe more often than he'd like to. He still need Minho to watch over him constantly, like a solid guardian angel, ready to help him through his panic and anxiety attacks no matter what. It's unfair, considering Minho is just as fucked up as Thomas is, probably even more, but he's a much better actor.

But Thomas doesn't feel as cold anymore, even though his hands keep shaking, and his nails are still ruined, fingers bloody, his pulse is steadier. Newt is always warm next to him, he's thawing the ice inside of Thomas little by little, through gentle eyes and soft touches and gentle words mixed up with some insults that only make Thomas giggle. And oh god, he had missed the sound of his own laughter, even though every time he cracks up his stomach and back hurt as if he had just been shot again.

Everything looks so much brighter and cozy, too. Newt is still pale, thin, kinda faded, but every time he laughs it's like life is softer and glowing a little around the edges. Now that Newt is actually awake, weak, sad, just as broken as Thomas himself, but alive , Paradise looks even more like the Glade. But it's a refreshing feeling, it isn't claustrophobic anymore, it looks like the first days, uncertain and exciting and safe .

So even though Thomas doesn't think he'll be able to put himself together and fix every part of him any time soon, pretending that's fine when he's with Newt isn't that difficult. He's kinda lost and insecure all the time, because he's never been a touchy person, but his hands itch constantly with the need of reaching out and touch Newt. He's never felt like this before, and he blames it on the fact that Newt's last days can be counted, and on the fact that he already lost him once, he's afraid he'll lose him again if he gets his eyes off of him. He rarely touches him, though, he's too clumsy for these things, he feels like a little kid that won't stop tripping over his own feet.

Still, Newt has always been a whole lot more confident than him when it comes to personal boundaries, he clings onto Thomas whenever he feels like it, and Thomas enjoys the warmth as it slowly melts away the coldness inside him.

---

Thomas still spends most of his nights with Newt, he sits in the chair that's by Newt's bed and they talk for hours until Thomas falls asleep for a few hours. He wonders if Newt ever sleeps, because he's always awake when Thomas falls asleep and when he wakes up.

One of those nights, Newt asks, quietly, almost shyly, “have you read it?”

Thomas is confused for a few seconds, until Newt points to the necklace that's around his neck with a trembling finger, he shakes way more than Thomas does.

“Couldn't,” Thomas confesses, shaking his head, he doesn't add anything else, doesn't think he can.

“Do you wanna know what I said on it?” Newt's face is always pale, but right now, even in the dark of the night, Thomas can see a light pink running over his cheeks. He looks so frail and embarrassed, Thomas wishes he could protect him, for once. Newt would punch him if he could listen to Thomas's thoughts, would scream at his face to take care of himself instead.

“It's okay, I'll read it once I'm ready,” he replies, partly because he doesn't want Newt to feel uncomfortable, partly because he's sure he won't be able to handle what it says, and he doesn't want to break down in front of Newt. The string of the necklace is too tight around his neck, he feels on the verge of choking.

“Okay, but,” Newt takes a deep breath, he's fidgeting with his blankets and nibbling in his bottom lip, it's all chapped and shiny red, ruined like Thomas's nails. “There's something I want you to know. It's probably a too bloody soon to have this conversation, but I want to get it out of the way as soon as possible.”

Thomas doesn't say anything, he just looks at Newt and gives him all the time he needs to get his thoughts in order. He knows he looks calm, but inside nervousness is eating him away. Newt looks incredibly small, swimming in a big white shirt and surrounded by fluffy blankets, but Thomas knows he's dangerous without even wanting to be, he could tear him down only with words. He hates his own vulnerability.

“I wrote that every single day I said their names out loud. The names of those who didn't make it,” when he looks away from his fingers and up to Thomas, Newt's eyes are filled with a raw fear that Thomas feels like he's freezing inside all over again, as if all his progress until now is going to waste. “I need you to promise me you'll keep doing it once I- If we can't find a way to keep me alive, I need you to do it for me, and add my name.”

Thomas should have braced himself for this, he knew something bad was coming, but the force of Newt's words hits him so hard he feels like he just woke up for the first time in this place all over again. He's dizzy, feels trapped, the hut is closing down on him, he has to grip the chair he's sitting on as tightly as he can to stop himself from falling down.

Right there, he understands that Newt has already assumed his fate, he has already made up his mind, convinced himself that there's no way he can be saved. Thomas looks at Newt in the eyes, tries to find a trace of hope in there, but all he can see there is an endless fear and determination. Thomas has always seen that look once in his life before, in a rooftop, when Newt made him promise they would rescue Minho no matter what, even if they had to lose their lives.

His whole body aches at the realization that this is the third time Newt has told himself he's going to die, and Thomas just feels hopeless, because he wishes he could fight him, beg him not to give up just like Newt asked him once. You can't give up, I won't let you . But in reality, Thomas can't even give up because he's been feeling defeated since day one.

He wants to run until his legs give out, wants to scream until his throat burns, he wants to cry until he's choking on his own tears. But this isn't about him, he remind himself, it has to stop being about him. This is about Newt, it's about making him feel as good as possible for as long as he can.

So Thomas nods, he doesn't speak, he feels like he might throw up if he tries to. But he nods, even though he has no idea how he'll be able to keep going once he loses Newt one more time. He couldn't even say his name when he thought Newt was death. But he nods anyways, and whimpers quietly when Newt smiles, broken, but relieved.

“Cheer up, shuckface,” Newt says, and he throws one of his pillows at Thomas when he doesn't react. Thomas stares at him with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and the giggle that escapes Newt's mouth eases something in his chest, makes the night look a little brighter.

Thomas hates himself for this, the fact that Newt's the one who has to try to cheer him up when he should be the one that's scared to death and panicking every three hours. But he's too selfless to let people see how messed up he actually is.

So Thomas fakes a laughter when Newt throws another pillow at him. Puts on his actor mask and starts a pillow fight as if the conversation they just had didn't tore him apart completely. But with Newt, happiness isn't such a strange concept, and soon Thomas is laughing for real, out loud, with his head thrown back, even if it makes his entire body hurt.

“What the hell is going on here?” Minho screams as he burst into the hut, wide eyed and breathing heavily. Newt just laughs louder when he sees his face.

“Isn't it allowed to have a little fun here or what?” he says, throwing a pillow at Minho, and he catches it effortlessly, looking at the both of them still confused, but with a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth.

“I just heard screams in the middle of the fucking night and came here running,” he explains, and throws the pillow back at Newt as hard as he can. “If you two shanks weren't injured I wouldn't have worried.”

“You're too sensible man, that used to be my role,” Newt pouts. “Where did your fun self go?” He looks so beautiful, Thomas thinks, his cheeks red, his hair messed up, his eyes wrinkled up with laughter. So healthy, but it's all fake.

“I'm about to kill you two of too much fun,” Minho walks towards Thomas and pulls at his arm until the both of them fall onto Newt's bed so he can start a tickle fight.

Thomas should be worried, he thinks in the back of his mind. The fact that Minho's insomnia seems to be as bad as theirs should worry him, but it's too difficult to think when he feels like his chest is going to burst for laughing too much. They are a bundle of limbs and pillows and laughter, and for a few minutes Thomas becomes a regular teenage boy that's having fun with his friends.

---

A few days later, Thomas feels strong enough to go visit the stone. When he gets there, he finds Gally sitting in front of it, staring at it, as if he's trying to memorize every single one of the names written there.

“Hey,” Thomas greets, patting him on the back before he flops down next to him, “everything good?”

When Gally looks at him his eyes are kinda blurred, as if Thomas just had just woke up him. And he probably did, but from a memory instead of a dream, Thomas knows that feeling all too well.

“As good as it can be,” he says quietly, smiling gently. What about you? Feeling any better?”

Thomas takes a deep breath and looks at the stone in front of him, his chest twinges when he sees Chuck's name, he knows it's freshly carved, at least it wasn't there the night he first visited it.

“Not really, but at least I'm trying to stop moping around,” Gally laughs at this, short and dry, but it makes Thomas feel a little calmer. He's glad he isn't alone, he would probably lose it again.

They stay in silence for a few minutes, Thomas can only hear the ocean and voices muffled at his back. He doesn't really know how to act, doesn't know if he should say something, he feels the need to apologize, burning constantly under his skin, but he'd feel too exposed with Gally next to him.

“Have you carved any names?” Gally asks suddenly, it makes Thomas jump a little.

“I don't think I'd be able to,” he confesses, shaking his head, he feels a little embarrassed. “What about you?”

Gally doesn't answer instantly, he just glances down at his hands. Thomas follows the movement, and he sees he's holding a small dagger, twisting it between his fingers, as if he's nervous.

“I just carved one,” he says quietly, and for a moment Thomas thinks Gally looks as embarrassed as he is. “Chuck's,” Gally mumbles then, and the world seems to bend down a little, Thomas feels like he's losing his balance even if he isn't even standing. “I know you think you're weak, Thomas,” Gally keeps talking, he doesn't even give Thomas room to hurt, “but the truth is we all are. I haven't been able to write it down 'till today. We're all messed up here, we all feel guilty for different reasons, you aren't as lonely as you think. You shouldn't have to be.”

It's ironic, that Gally is the one telling him this, when he looks way more alone and so much sadder than Thomas, right now. His shoulders are sunken, his head buried between them, gaze low, hands shaky. Thomas may feel like shit ninety nine percent of the time, but at least he has a bunch of people by his side reminding him he isn't as shitty nor as guilty as he feels he is, even if he never believes them. But Gally, does he have anyone at all?

“No one blames you for it, you know that, right?” Thomas says, he moves closer and takes the dagger out of Gally's hands slowly to bring his attention back to him. “I think I was the only one who did, I was being unfair.”

“But I do blame myself,” Thomas swears he hasn't seen Gally this vulnerable in his entire life, not even back in the maze, when he had being stung. “You more than anyone know I will never forgive myself.”

“But you didn't chose it!” Suddenly all Thomas can feel is frustrating and exasperation, it melts down every trace of pain inside of him. He wonders if this is what Minho feels every time he has to talk him out of one of his breakdowns, it's overwhelming. “It wasn't your decision, they were controlling you, using you. You didn't want to do it, Gally. WCKD are the ones to blame, not you.”

“You know what?” Gally smiles a little then, and it looks weird in that sad expression of him, out of place. “I wish you would listen to yourself sometimes. You didn't chose it either. Chuck, Teresa. Even Newt. They all made their own choices. Then, why do you keep blaming yourself?”

It's different, Thomas wants to say. I should've stopped them. I should've been faster. I should've been smarter. I should've seen it all coming. I should've, I should've, I should've. But he can't bring himself to speak anymore, the mention of those names together hurt like a million tiny needles through his chest.

“Go write her name,” Gally says as he stands up. “Go tell them all you're sorry. Believe me, it stings like hell, but it helps.”

Then he's gone. And Thomas is left all alone, with shaky hands and trembling legs. But he still forces himself to get up and carve Teresa's name down. He forces himself to get up and apologize to every single one of the names written there. He owes them.

--- 

Thomas goes find Minho and Newt later, they are sitting at the beach in a bundle of towels, enjoying the little free time Minho has per day. He still doesn't let Thomas nor Newt do anything to help, even though they are so bored they've tried to convince him a million times. Thomas is sure working would help him regain control, would keep his mind busy enough for memories to break him down at the most random moments. Still, Minho is too worried to let them do anything just yet, and Thomas gets it, he almost lost the two of them in the same night.

“You carved her name?” Newt says as soon as Thomas sits down next to him, bluntly, straight to the point, like he always does.

“Do you think anyone will mind?” Thomas asks, his eyes lost in the wide open sea, he wonders how far away they are from the Last City, wonders if there's still life there.

“I don't think so,” Minho replies, and it's meant to sound reassuring, but it sounds like a question. “I mean, you can't expect everyone here to remember her kindly, but I think we all know what she meant to you.” Thomas tries to ignore the pang in his chest when Minho uses the past tense, but he's sure his friends can see it in his face, anyway. “Also, she saved your life, didn't she.”

“Do you?” Thomas looks at Minho, trying to sound just curious instead of hopeful. “Remember her kindly, I mean. Do you?”

It takes Minho a while to reply. He lets his eyes travel along the outline of the ocean, as if he's deep in thought, probably wondering which words he should use to not hurt Thomas's feelings, to not trigger him somehow, disappoint him.

“I can't,” he admits, and even though Thomas's heart drops a little, he can't say he's surprised. Minho's eyes are clear and honest when he looks back at him. “I know she risked her life for you, but all what she did before, I can't forget that.” He stops for a few seconds, sinks his fingers in the sand, traces random patterns that make no sense to Thomas before he decides he's ready to keep talking. “I could see her, staring at me, while WCKD were-” Minho has to cut himself again to take a deep breath, his eyebrows are furrowed in something that looks too similar to bitterness, and Thomas braces himself for the worst. “They almost killed me, Thomas. And that gal did nothing to stop them. She kinda gave me huge trust issues, not gonna lie. It's hard for me to trust anyone who isn't you two or Frypan. I can't even trust Brenda, and she's my closest friend after you lot.”

Thomas's tongue feels heavy in his own mouth, it tastes acid, the familiar taste of betrayal. It makes his want to throw up, makes him what to chug a whole bottle of Gally's disgusting bear just to make it disappear. He feels like shit, knowing he's already forgiven Teresa despite what he did to Minho, to all of them. He's always been too weak for her, in a way, because she knew him better than anyone else, better than himself. And he knew she actually cared . He could just care right back.

He looks up then, Brenda is right there, standing behind them, looking down at the three of them with a small smile in her lips, and by the look in her face Thomas can tell she's heard what Minho just said.

“Doesn't it bother you?” He asks. Both Newt and Minho look up at her too, surprised.

“I don't trust him either,” Brenda crouches down behind Minho and puts her hands on his shoulders, Thomas doesn't know if it's to keep her balance so she won't fall down or just because she can.

“Why?” Thomas has been curious about their friendship since he regained conscious, he didn't know two people could get as close as they seem to be in the span or a week. But when you're as damaged as they all are, you get gentler, easier to open up, and closer to those who can relate to your feelings.

“I don't trust anyone fully,” Brenda replies, fast and easy, as if she just gave the most obvious answer and Thomas was a fool for even asking.

“Jorge taught her right, didn't he?” Minho says, he throws his head back to look up at her, and Thomas swears he's only seen his eyes go that soft when he looks at Newt. It's the tender look Thomas thinks he'd give to his sister or brother, if he had one. “Listen Thomas, I know you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her, I'm thankful for that, I truly am. That's kind of why I wish she was here with us, safe, you know? Even though I'm pretty sure I wouldn't stand her.”

Thomas and Brenda would laugh at that, and it isn't a happy sound, it's more resigned than anything, but at least it isn't sad. That's progress, Thomas hopes.

“You're way nicer than I am,” Newt says then. He had been quiet all this time, his face is so empty, eyes unfocused somewhere in the sand, Thomas's skin boils up.

“She didn't only save my life,” his voice is harsher than he intended, but he can't say he's sorry. “She risked hers for yours too, in a way.”

“Do you think I don't know that?” Newt almost screams at him.

He's frowning, his eyes are hard and unreadable, and Thomas has an ugly flashback to that time Newt cornered him against a wall and accused him of lying to him. An ugly flashback to when he realized he was losing him, slowly. All his anger disappears suddenly, replaced by cold fear. His hands are shaking again.

“I think about it all the bloody time, and it pisses me off so much. I feel so bad for not being able to forgive her,” after this, Newt stays in silence for a while, looking at Thomas challenging, as if he's waiting for him to fight him back. Thomas can only stare at him and wonder how someone can look so fragile but so intimidating at the same time.

“Listen to me Tommy, maybe I can't remember what you talked to me about while I was unconscious, but I sure can remember this shank,” Newt points at Minho, but his eyes are still fixed on Thomas, he looks more hurt than mad. All Thomas wants to do is reach out to smoother the angry wrinkles in Newt's forehead and whisper that he hates fighting with him. He stays still. “I remember his screams, got them stuck in my brain, could hear him crying out while I was asleep. I wanted to help him so bad, but I couldn't bloody wake up,” Newt's voice keeps getting quieter and quieter the more he speaks, as if he's getting weaker, as if his own memories are wearing him out.

Thomas starts biting his nails again, or he tries to, but he's shaking so much he ends up ruining his fingers even more. He didn't think he could despise himself more than he already did, but knowing he was never there for Minho, he's drowning in guilt. He bites harder to keep himself present.

“Whatever it is they did to him, she didn't stop it, I can't forgive her,” it's like all the anger Newt was building up inside has suddenly dissipated and left him deflated. His eyes are soft when he raises his hand to take Thomas's away from his mouth. The touch is gentle, but Thomas skin feels electrified. “I don't care if you forgave her, but don't ask me to do it.”

Thomas can't take the pleading look in Newt's eyes, he doesn't even understand why his opinion means so much to him, he has the right to hate Teresa, and Tomas thinks he should hate him too, for not helping Minho while Newt couldn't. Even if he was torn in almost every sense of the word, he should've been able to put himself together for his friend. Minho had done it for him.

Newt squeezes his hand then, lightly, a reminder that he's still there for Thomas no matter what, and then he lets go. Thomas stares down at his own hand, he isn't shaking anymore.

“If it makes you feel better, I can't have a good memory of her either,” Brenda tells Newt, and Thomas feels raw and exposed when he realizes this whole scene happened In front of her. “I despise WCKD's ways, and everyone who agrees with them, and that includes her. And you say you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her,” she says to Thomas, and he doesn't look angry, she looks sorry, and that's somewhat even worse, “but we wouldn't had gone to the Last City if she didn't betray us in the first place. We all would be safe and healthy now, including her, if she wanted to.”

Thomas has to swallow hard to stop the bitterness to take over him again, because even if it hurts to admit it, he knows Teresa would have never accompanied them there. Not when she thought she could help the rest of the world, somehow.

“But people can make mistakes, she was doing what she thought was right, tried to save everyone,” he fights back, if you can call it a fight when he sounds so weak. “People can redeem themselves. She saved my life.”

“She tried to save everyone by ruining innocent lives, including my pal right here,” Brenda pats Minho's shoulders with both hands, only then Thomas realizes he's gone completely quiet and pale. “And I'm not so sure if what she did counts as redemption. Maybe for you, because she did it for you. But you have to understand maybe that's not enough for some of us, I can't help being bitter.”

Thomas doesn't even try to fight back this time. He has a whole speech in his head though, about how bad he feels every single second that goes by and he doesn't move to save anyone. He could tell them how utterly awful it is to know you can help the whole world but you are hidden in some safe secret Paradise while others keep dying out. He could tell them about how selfish he feels literally all the time and how much he hates himself because he's too afraid to do anything about it. He could tell them about how he wants to rip off his own skin every time he thinks that what Newt needs to survive is inside of him. But he can't bring himself to say anything.

“I say her name, you know?” Newt mumbles, once they've all been quiet for a while and Thomas thought the conversation was over. “Every night, with the others. We won't forget her,” he promises, and he isn't even looking at Thomas. But oh, god, Thomas loves him so much.

–--

Thomas can't stop thinking about it. The fact that even though they feel safe here, there's a virus out there that's practically exterminating the human race. He remembers the story Teresa told him once, about her own mom, and how she was driven to madness till the point she ripped her own eyes out. The thought of Newt ending like that is unbearable, it makes him gag.

If only there was a way he could help everyone. If only he knew how to get back to the Last City. He knows he watched it burn down, but maybe there's still someone alive who knows what to do with him, because he doesn't know where to start, guilt is eating him away faster than ever.

He wants to pack a few things and run away, desperately. His whole body itches for staying there, safe, with his arms crossed. But at the same time, the reasonable side of his brain tells him it'd be a suicide mission, tells him he's lost too much already to risk what he has left. He's never been keen to over thinking things like this. He's so used to give in to his instinct and run, but he guesses fear has made him more sensible. That's partly why he doesn't move, his own memories terrify him, how is he supposed to face the world when he can't even confront his own mind.

“You're thinking so loud I can almost hear your brain working,” Newt says suddenly, bringing Thomas back to reality.

It happens way too often now, he loses himself in his own thoughts, spaces out and forgets everything around him.

They are sitting over the grass, the bonfire at their backs is almost dead, the night is dark and hot, everything smells like fire and freedom and Newt. Thomas feels like he's in the Glade again, back to his first night there, when he was confused, but complete.

“Who are you and what have you done to Thomas?” Newt leans in to knock their shoulders together, he's smiling so brightly tonight, he doesn't look broken at all, but Thomas knows better. “I'd say a penny for your thoughts but, you know, we're all broke here, mate. So,” he looks down at Thomas's hands, and when Thomas himself follows his gaze he realizes he's shaking, “a hug for your thoughts?”

Thomas feels so much lighter every time Newt is next to him, smiling, shining, looking healthy and almost happy. Even if he knows it's just an illusion that fades away at night, when he's too tired to pretend. Even if he knows deep inside Newt is counting down the hours 'till his last day. Even though he knows he's rotten in more many ways than Thomas is. He wishes he was brave enough to tell him how thankful he is, his sole presence makes living easier.

“The feeling that I should be doing something won't stop bugging me,” Thomas explains, fists his hands to stop himself from shaking. It's so hot tonight, he's starting to feel pathetically weak again. “I could be helping so many people if I knew how to. Maybe someone out there knows where to start. If only I knew where to look…”

Newt's eyes are so heavy on him, they burn his skin even though his light is suddenly gone. He looks earnest and thoughtful.

“Listen, Tommy,” he starts, the sound of his voice just as serious as the look in his eyes, but gentler. “I know you want to help, I get it. I think we all feel bad because we aren't moving a bloody finger for those who are dying out there. Some of the people in here have family lost somewhere in the Scorch.”

Thomas is stricken by the memory of his mother telling him everything would be alright the moment she let WCKD to take him away. He can barely make up her features, she has probably died a long time ago. He wonders how he can miss someone so much when he can't even remember her name, wonders if Newt misses any faces from his childhood.

“But we've already been out there, we've seen how bad it is. We watched how the Last City and WCKD burned down,” Newt's voice goes a lot colder now, it gives Thomas goosebumps, the bad kind. “We barely made it. Do you think it's worth it to risk our lives again when we don't even know if there's anyone with the knowledge and resources to help us?”

Thomas opens his mouth ready to replicate, because he's never talked in plural. He's always talked about himself, he won't let anyone else lose their life for him. He's had enough. They've done enough. He deserves nothing. But Newt shuts him up with a finger even before he has a chance to reply.

“If you truly want to go, I'm going with you. So are Minho, Fry, Brenda… You know that, don't you? And we both know you aren't willing to risk that.”

Newt lifts up a hand, traces the necklace around Thomas's neck with a light finger, so slowly and softly it tickles. Only now, Thomas realizes how close they actually are. He can feel Newt's warm breath ghosting over his cheek. He's pretty sure he's blushing, at least he feels like his face is burning up. It's suffocating, but not in a bad way.

“You don't know what I wrote here,” Newt keeps talking, quietly, as if it's more for himself than for Thomas. He twists his fingers in the necklace, grabs the small silver cylinder. “I wrote that I'd follow you anywhere, and I meant it. I still do.”

Thomas can feel his heart beating frantically everywhere, on his wrists, behind his eyes, going up his throat. He tries to swallow hard to push it down.

“Why?” he asks, his voice is strangled, shaky and tiny.

“Because you always try to do what's best for us, for our freedom,” when Newt replies his words are mellow and sweet, he sounds sure and collected, as if he knows exactly what he's doing, as if the proximity isn't affecting him at all. Thomas is so lost, he forgot the rules to this game he didn't even realize they are playing. “Because I trust you.”

And those four words, the weight of them, it almost crushes Thomas's chest. It should be obvious, he guesses, that Newt trusts him, since he didn't drift away from him like Thomas thought he would. But hearing them out loud, so firm and clear, as if Newt hasn't been surer of anything in his life, it's a feeling of reassurance completely new. He doesn't deserve it, this blind trust Newt is offering him with his eyes wide open and sincere, this blind trust Newt has put on him since the moment he made him a runner, this blind trust he didn't take back even though Thomas almost killed him once. Twice, now.

All these thoughts disappear in the back of Thomas's mind as Newt pulls at his necklace to bring him closer. Realization washes over Thomas so slowly, when his eyes fall to Newt's lips, watches as his tongue peeks out to wet them, and Thomas catches himself wondering how they would feel against his own lips, what Newt's mouth would taste like.

It's such a weird thing, this bubbly feeling in his stomach, light and sweet, but extremely vertiginous. Thomas has never thought about anything like this, has never had the time to, too busy fighting for his life and the lives of those around him. And it seems like such a simple thing, a kiss, compared to anything he's been through before, but it feels so big right now he feels like he's about to collapse.

Newt is a step ahead of him, as always. While Thomas is thinking about how nice it'd be to kiss Newt's lips, Newt is already pressing their mouths together.

It's gentle and careful, slow and chaste, because none of them know what they are doing, but it's so nice, and oh so warm. Suddenly Thomas feels like he's burning up everywhere, he doesn't understand how a person can melt all the ice that's been inside of him for months with just one kiss, he hasn't felt this warm since he woke up in Paradise for the first time.

It's surprisingly easy, kissing Newt, as if they are puzzle pieces that were ready to fit together since forever, but didn't try to until now. Thomas has never considered the fact that he liked Newt more than as a friend, he was so focused on trying to keep on breathing without Newt, that he's never wondered why it was so difficult to breathe without him in the first place.

When Newt sticks his tongue out, runs it along Thomas's bottom lip, he has to fist his hands in the front of Newt's shirt in order not to fall down. He opens his mouth, allows Newt to visit every corner of it, allows him to erase all the bitterness and replace it with something sweet, something theirs .

Thomas feels so dizzy, but the good kind of dizziness, something he has never felt before, as if he's surrounded by fluffy cushions and nothing can harm him right now.

He whines when Newt pulls away, slowly. He feels like he should be embarrassed for that noise, but he can see Newt smiling softly, his face blurred because of the proximity. Thomas loosens up his grip on Newt's shirt, even though his fingers itch, wanting to bring him closer again and keep him there forever, where he can feel him. But he doesn't know how much he's allowed to take, so he lets go, for now, and closes his eyes when Newt threads his fingers through his hair.

“You need to stop over thinking all the time, you've never been good at it, it's not your style,” Newt jokes.

Thomas can't help but chuckle, and it's not because of what Newt says, but because he feels so incredibly relieved at the sound of Newt's voice, all quavery and broken, as shaken up as Thomas feels. He was afraid he was feeling too much.

“I'm gonna try to get some sleep, you should do the same, yeah, Tommy?” Newt says, and he tugs gently at Thomas's hair one last time before he gets up.

Only then Thomas opens his eyes, once he can't feel Newt's warmth by his side anymore. He watches him leave with his eyes half closed, and his head is so bottled up and kissed high that he wouldn't be able to over think even if he tried. Thomas doesn't wake up screaming in the middle of the night for the first time in months.

---

It becomes a thing, kinda.

Thomas has no idea how relationships work, he's pretty sure he can't even call what they have a relationship. He's literally a baby learning to crawl when it comes to romantic feelings, he's so clumsy he never dares to touch Newt first.

Nothing really changes between them, they don't become more affectionate, nor more cheesy, they spend as much time together as they did before. But Thomas feels his skin over sensitive every time Newt leans a little bit closer than necessary, his pulse jumps when they touch accidentally, his breath hitches in his throat when Newt purposely looks for him, and Thomas is always waiting expectantly.

It's kind of a distraction, all the kissing. Whenever Thomas finds himself over thinking anything, Newt corners him and crashes their lips together, licks into his mouth until Thomas can't taste anything but Newt, roams his hands all over Thomas's body until he can't feel anything else than warmth. Thomas's mind is so clouded guilt can't get to him.

Thomas is afraid it's nothing more than that. He's afraid he's feeling way more than Newt does. Because he doesn't kiss Newt out of boredom, or out of desperation to drown his own thoughts. He likes to kiss him because it's the only way he feels truly alive . And he doesn't have a clue what that means, if it even makes sense, he just knows it feels better than anything he's ever felt before.

He's been feeling so damn tired since the moment he woke up in this new place for the first time, too exhausted to even try to fight his own breakdowns. He was always aching all over, tripping over his own feet when he tried to run away from his own memories, and he was too tired to get up and keep running. Newt makes it easier, holding on. He makes Thomas believe that maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to laugh without his ribs hurting like a million blades through his chest. Makes him think that maybe, just maybe, he'll get to understand what real happiness is, some day.

So he's afraid he isn't the same for Newt. He wants to be more than a distraction, more than a coping mechanism. He wants to be another chance, a new hope for a better future. That's what Newt means to him, and he wants him to give it to him right back. For as long as he can.

All these worries turn to dust every time their lips touch, though. When Newt is so close to him Thomas can feel him breathing against his body, can feel his pulse under his fingertips. When they pull away after they've been kissing for who knows how long, and Newt's eyes are glistering, his cheeks red, his lips swollen and puffy, smiling softly, shining so bright Thomas thinks he might go blind if he stares for too long. But he never looks away.

-–-

Thomas thinks he's drowning. And the scariest part is that it feels good.

He doesn't really know how to put it into words, what Newt makes him feel. He just knows the best part of his day is when they are left alone and Newt finally gets close enough to touch in ways he doesn't dare to do in front of others.

It's scorching, suffocating, Newt's hands tracing the angles of his body, always over his clothes, but setting his skin on fire anyways. His lips sucking out all the air of Thomas's lungs, 'till the point he feels like he's choking, but he doesn't want to pull away even if his lungs are blazing.

Thomas never thought these kind of word could describe a good feeling. He's always associated the inability to breathe properly with anxiety and panic and pure, cold fear. He's always associated fire with destruction and agony and pain. But with Newt, it doesn't feel like he's about to die, it's a lively feeling, makes his heart pound frantically in an exciting way. Thomas wants Newt to drag him under and never let him go.

He guesses this is what it feels when you truly like someone. The sense of vulnerability is always in the back of his mind, he's exposed and raw whenever he's with Newt. He knows Newt knows he can break him down if he wants to. He trusts Newt blindly, he never felt the need to hide his emotions from him, doesn't think he'd be able to. Every time he blushes red and pants Newt's name, he feels naked and weak. Newt just smirks, and Thomas fears he isn't feeling as much.

He asks Brenda once, an evening Newt is strolling by the beach with Minho and Frypan. Thomas is so nervous his palms are sweating, he keeps rubbing them against his jeans, partly to try to dry them, partly to calm himself down. It's ridiculous how nervous this topic makes him feel, you'd think someone who got themselves trapped into a gigantic deadly maze at night without second thoughts wouldn't be scared of feelings .

“Brenda, how do you-” his voice cracks up in a way that makes him wince, Brenda stares at him with a mocking expression, her eyebrows drawn up expectantly. “How do you know if someone likes you back?”

Brenda's face changes then, it goes blank, she stares at him with empty eyes for what like feels like hours. Thomas thinks he might start panicking.

“Thomas, I know you aren't stupid,” she says, half annoyed half incredulous. “He likes you back, don't ask stupid questions.”

Then she gets up and leaves, leaving Thomas alone and open mouthed, wondering how she even knew how he was talking about.

---

It gets too much sometimes, for the both of them.

They like to sit at the beach at night, when none of them can sleep, they stare at the reflection of the moon over the water, they try to stare at the stars, but they are never visible, a reminder that the sky is always dull and overcast after the sun almost burned down the world.

Those are the only moments they dare to talk about important stuff, about things that cut them deep. When Paradise is so quiet, only the sea is listening, they feel brave enough to strip themselves.

Newt talks about that day he jumped off the walls of the maze, when he ran our of hope completely. Thomas talks about the night he spent trapped there, how his mind is able to turn the sound of the waves in the metallic sound of a griever. Newt talks about Alby. Thomas talks about Chuck. They both talk about Minho, and how they'd do anything to go back in time and save him from WCKD in time. Thomas talks about guilt and loss. Newt talks about losing himself, he voices how scared he actually is, confesses to Thomas he doesn't want to go through the whole process again, he wants to stop before he can see black veins taking over his arms. The taste of his own dark blood still makes him gag.

“Aren't we taking this way too far?” Newt asks one of these nights they are sitting by the shore, shoulder against shoulder, quiet and fragile.

“What do you mean?” Thomas whispers back as he plays with his feet in the wet sand, tries to bury Newt's without using his hands.

“Whatever it is we have,” Newt explains, but he doesn't look at Thomas. “The longer we keep it up, the harder it'll be for you later, you know? Once I'm not around anymore.”

The thing about these quiet nights, is that everything feels twice more real, and it hurts twice as bad. Reality is heavy on Thomas's shoulders, makes him curl into himself, hug his legs against his chest, try to make himself as small as he can, hide from the world, and the future.

It is too much, the anxiety in his chest, his lungs feel too big for his own body, but he's unable to breathe properly and steadily. He's afraid he's gonna break in two. He kind of wants to.

Thomas wants to explain how he feels to Newt, he's never wanted to do anything so badly ever before. He wants to tell him how the sole thought of losing him again scares him so much he wants to bury himself, wants to trade places with Newt so desperately. He'd rather lose himself than losing Newt. He wants to say the memory of Newt's broken body makes him sick, the threatening fact that he might have to go through that again makes him want to puke.

He wants to tell him he could barely stand up when he thought Newt was dead, and he doesn't think it can get any worse than that. He talk about the constant itch on his hands, the need of reaching out to touch and prove that Newt is there, warm, is real . He wants to say that the only reason he doesn't panic at night dreaming about the day he loses Newt again, is because he can't stop thinking about the taste of his lips. He wants to tell him he loves him. Wants to say that he thinks he's loved him for a long time now, but he was too busy running even consider it. Wants to tell him he thinks he was already in love the first time he lost him.

But Thomas can't feel brave enough to voice these things, not even in the quiet of the night.

“I want to make the most out of the time we have left,” he says instead, still wrapped up around himself, shaking slightly, feeling weaker than ever.

Newt doesn't reply, he just leans closer, presses a cold kiss against the soft skin of Thomas's neck, just because he can. It makes Thomas shiver, it makes him want to cry until he can't see anything anymore.

-–-

A few days later, Thomas feels like drowning again, but not in a good way.

Vince's voice sounds muffled to his ears that night, when they all gather together around the bonfire and he gives his typical speech. But this time the speech changes, and Thomas feels like his ears are filled up with water, it seems like the words are a million miles away, but they cut so deep he might start bleeding.

“We've been looking for the serum in the sea for over two months now,” Vince says, and Thomas wants to scream it is not enough time, they can't quit yet, but his voice doesn't want to come out. “We think it's time to stop now, we're just wasting time we could be spending on something more important.”

How can anything else be more important than saving a life, Newt's life, Thomas doesn't understand. He stays still, gritting his teeth, lips closed in a tight line to stop a painful whine from coming out, eyes fixed on the fire. He feels cold all over, he wonders if the bonfire would bring him some warmth if he walked straight into it.

“So, we've decided to stop looking for it and start trying to find a way to create a cure, somehow,” Vince's voice sounds so unsure, you can hear he doesn't believe his own words, Thomas doesn't know if he wants to punch him in the face, punch himself, or laugh in despair. He does nothing. “So tomorrow our… our doctors will start working with the serum we already have and with Thomas.”

He can feel Newt's eyes on him, heavy and serious, burning the side of his face, watching him, waiting for a reaction. He doesn't move until he feels Minho's hand on his nape, squeezing even before Thomas can start to panic. He swa t s it away.

“How could you let this happen?” he spits out, bitter on his own tongue. It doesn't even sound like a question, it's an accusation, aimed to hurt Minho as much as Thomas himself is hurting right now.

He knows it isn't fair, to blame it all on Minho, but he needs to put the blame on someone other than himself or he'll break in two. He knows Minho can only do so much, you can't stand up against everyone who's been looking for the serum on your own. But Thomas was convinced Minho would never give up on Newt, no matter the cost. And he doesn't know what to do with himself now.

Minho only stares at him, pained but not at all surprised, and somehow that only hurts even more. He looks defeated again, with fallen shoulders and frowning, he looks pitiful. Minho looks like he's given up, and Thomas knows Newt has never even believed in his own future to start with , not for a second. H e can't do this on his own, he never could.

Thomas is about to open his mouth and scream right into Minho's face that he can't believe he's left him alone in this, him of all people. But Newt grabs his wrist, so hard it actually hurts, brings him back to his senses in a way, and he pulls at his arm until they are both standing. Thomas can feel a million eyes on him, his lungs are closing up again.

“Calm down, alright?” Newt says, in a whisper, but to Thomas sounds like he's yelling.

He looks down at his own hands when Newt tightens his grip on his wrist, and he sees he's shaking uncontrollably, just like the first time he woke up here. He feels like he's going backwards, and it's vertiginous.

“Let's get out of here,” Newt mumbles, as he pulls at Thomas's arm, drags him out of there as fast as he can with Thomas stumbling behind him, almost falling a couple of times. He feels as broken as Newt looked that night in the Last City, he hopes this place burns down just like that night.

Thomas doesn't realize how shaken up he actually is until Newt pins him against a tree in a quiet, small corner of the forest that surrounds Paradise, away from the voices, away from the ocean, away from the fire. Thomas can only hear his own breathing, fast and ragged, rasping its way up his chest, scorching his throat, making him pant and gag. He can hear his own thoughts, his own voice screaming at him, he's about to lose everything, again, and he keeps hurting those around him. He can't even see properly, Newt's face is blurry in front of him, dark and pale against the moonlight. Thomas swears he can see black veins going up his collar, taking over his neck. Tears pinch the back of his eyes, make them itch.

“Hey, Tommy, look at me,” Newt whispers, his hands cupping Thomas's cheeks firmly, rough but comforting, his fingers dig into the back of Thomas's head painfully. “Thomas, c'mon, focus.”

And Thomas doesn't know how to tell him that he's already looking, but that all he can see are swollen black veins growing and taking over everything around him, blurring it all, spoiling it. He starts coughing out, he feels like his lungs might give up on him at any moment.

“I'm here, Tommy. Touch me,” Newt takes his hands away from Thomas's face to grab his arms and bring them to himself.

Thomas holds onto him desperately, his nails sinking into the skin of Newt's forearms as he pulls him close enough to feel Newt's chest pressed up against his own. Only then he's able to slow down his breath ing, w hen he slides his arms around Newt's shoulders, closes his eyes, rests his forehead in the crook of his neck, and focuses on the steady rise and fall of his chest. It's funny how Newt is the steadiest thing in his life right now, but the most fragile at the same time.

Slowly, everything stops spinning. Thomas breathes in deep against Newt's skin, his scent calms him down in ways nothing else does, the warmth that his body irradiates warms him up in ways not even fire can. He's drowning again, but in a sweet kind of way, he wants to sink in deep and never get out.

“Hey,” Newt says, voice low and rough, his breath tickles Thomas's ear, it almost makes him laugh. “You okay?”

Thomas doesn't reply, he can't. He keeps his eyes closed, feels his own chest moving at Newt's pace, in slow, deep breaths. His heart is still beating strongly, he can feel it hitting his ribs, but at least it doesn't feel like it's trying to run up his throat and away.

He dares to pull back after a while. He doesn't know if it's been a few minutes or a few hours, but when Newt's hand comes up to his hair, his nails scratching his scalp, Thomas feels strong enough to open his eyes and pull back a little. He rests his head on the tree, looks at Newt through half closed eyelids, his eyes feel heavy and puffy even though he swears he didn't let a single tear fall down.

Newt's face is painted with worry, the concerned wrinkle that's permanently between his eyebrows is deeper than ever. Thomas lifts up a hand, he places it on the side of Newt's head, tries to smoother his frown with his thumb, but the look in Newt's eyes grows even more concerned.

“Hey, Tommy, are you better?” he asks, firm but small, his hands on Thomas's shoulders, keeping him up against the tree, as if he's afraid he'll crumple down if he lets go. Thomas is pretty sure he will.

Thomas swallows hard and shakes his head. He doesn't even know what he's trying to say, he's awestruck right now. He lets his hands wander down, slides his fingers as lightly as he can over Newt's cheeks, down his neck, amazed that he can't find any trace of dark veins there. His skin is clear, warm as ever, he can see goosebumps raising where his fingers touch, Newt is shivering slightly against him.

“What are you doing?” Newt asks, his voice comes out breathy and curious, his fingers digging harder on Thomas's shoulders.

Thomas keeps staring at him, running the pads of his fingers over his jaw, sinking them into his golden hair. He feels like his chest is about to burst when Newt's lips part and a small noise leaves his lips, something similar to a whine, and he licks his lips with his eyes focused on Thomas's face, so heavy and hot Thomas feels like Newt can see inside of his head. He probably doesn't even need to, his feelings are writ t en all over himself, out in the open, emotionally naked and vulnerable in front of Newt, as always.

It hits Thomas right there how much he actually needs Newt. He's always knew, really, the weight of it all has been hovering over him since the moment Janson told them Newt wasn't immune, and all the air left Thomas's lungs so suddenly, he had to bend down to stop himself from falling down. But now, it's so clear and real and tangible, the fact that he's gonna break apart once Newt isn't around anymore, he can feel himself slowly crumbling as they just wait for the day. Even if it's years away, he knows he'll only get more and more attached to Newt, and it'll only make him weaker. But he refuses to let go. He can't let go when Newt's the only thing that makes him feel something other than pure terror and guilt.

Minho was right, that day he first lead him to Newt's hut to find him thin, pale and unconscious, but alive. He won't be able to handle it, losing him a second time.

So he curls his fingers into Newt's hair and pulls him down, desperately, crashes their lips with such force he thinks he might start bleeding, but he doesn't care. It's amazing, how easily Newt goes with it, how he lets Thomas lead him down without any resistance whatsoever, how he's already open up for him even before their lips touch, waiting expectantly, willing to give him everything and more. I'd follow you anywhere , resounds in Thomas's head, and he wonders if Newt knows he doesn't have anywhere to go if he isn't beside him.

The kiss is frantic, fast and needy. Thomas feels Newt's hands roaming all over his body, touching everywhere, exploring every corner and angle and line, but it's not enough. He bites down on Newt's lower lip, tears a groan out of his throat, pushes his hands up under his shirt, his sweaty palms over smooth, warm and healthy skin. And it still isn't enough. Thomas has never felt anything quite like this, like raw need bubbling into his stomach, as if he'll run out of air if Newt stops kissing him, which doesn't make any sense at all.

But he isn't the only one who's feeling it. He can see it swimming in Newt's eyes when he pulls back a little to look down at him, with his mouth open and lips shining, his skin flushed from his cheeks to his chest. The sight is breathtaking, even though Thomas feels like he doesn't have any air left to lose.

Newt pushes onto him, his thigh between Thomas's legs, his arms at either side of his head. The tree at his back is sinking painfully into Thomas's ribs, but right now he doesn't care, he digs his fingers into the small of Newt's back, tries to bring him even closer to his body even though there's no space left between them that he can erase.

Newt's lips are scorching over his skin, he's setting him on fire, nibbling his way up Thomas's throat to his chin. He bites down on his jaw before he presses their foreheads together. Thomas is burning up, his head is cloudy with desire, he can feel his own heart beating everywhere, he can feel Newt's against his own ribs, nothing has ever felt this good.

“We're really doing this, aren't we?” Newt pants out, more to himself than to Thomas.

Thomas is lost here, he doesn't really know what they are doing. He just knows he's feeling so much his chest is going to explode. He's still learning what it is to feel this way, overwhelmed, shaky, unsure, so hot he's suffocating, but in a good way. He's learning to associate these feelings to nice, gentle things, like Newt's lips, and Newt's hands, and Newt's words. He's forgotten the world had kind things to offer.

So he just stares at Newt, with his mouth hanging open and his hands resting over his shoulders, expectantly and nervous. He knows these feelings boiling up in the pit of his stomach are coming out of desperation and raw need, but he's never wanted anything as much as he wants Newt's body pressed up against him right now. He's never trusted anyone as much as he trusts Newt, right now. He lets Newt lead him to wherever he wants to take him.

Newt's hands are shaking when he undoes the bottom of both their jeans. He's looking at Thomas with his eyes open wide and filled with questions, as if he doesn't know what they are doing either, but he's willing to take Thomas there anyway, wherever they are going. So Thomas nods to reassure him, even though he doesn't know what he's agreeing to.

“Off,” Newt says, short and precise, tapping his fingers on Thomas's hips, over the cloth of his pants.

Thomas does what he's told, he pushes his jeans and underwear down until they are puddling around his ankles. He stares at Newt when he's doing the same, he doesn't even have time to feel embarrassed or shy, because Newt moves before he can process anything, envelopes him in this bubble of warmth and safety that always makes Thomas want to drown.

He feels so overwhelmingly good, Thomas thinks he's gonna choke on his own heart. When Newt crashes their hips together, wraps a rough, trembling hand around both their dicks, Thomas thinks he might faint for real. Newt laughs then, Thomas can feel his teeth against his own neck, his body trembling against his ribs, he has to hold onto Newt's back tightly or his legs might give up.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, low and raspy in Newt's ear, when he starts moving his hand around them. It's clumsy and harsh, but it makes Thomas's head spin.

He didn't know feelings could be this intense in a good way, too. He feels Newt's dick, hard and hot, twitching against his own. This has never crossed his mind at all, he's blown away by the million different sensations that are rushing through his veins right now, he didn't think he could feel this much. He didn't think he could ever feel this good.

“Up,” Newt commands, tapping one of Thomas's legs with his free hand.

When Thomas is about to do what he's told, he remembers he didn't fully take his pants off, he just let them slide all the way down his ankles. Newt stops touching him as he struggles to kick them away.

“I told you off, not down,” Newt complains, and an irrational fear washes over Thomas suddenly. He's afraid Newt is mad at him and he totally ruined the moment. If there's one thing he learned in this world they live in, is that good things never last.

But once he gets rid of his pants, he looks up again, and Newt's eyes are sparkling, a mix of excitement, lust an d amusement. Thomas sees there's a hidden smile in the seam of his mouth, and he swears he can see actual happiness shining on his face for once. Thomas hopes his expression is a mirror of Newt's because he's sure he's feeling the exact same thing, and he's rarely sure of anything lately.

Newt pulls him under again, before he can even say a word. He leans down, traps Thomas's lips with his, swaps all his thoughts away with his tongue, until he's just feeling . Newt's hand is hot and sweaty when he curls it around the back of Thomas's thigh, he pushes up until Thomas curls his leg around Newt's waist, and takes Thomas's breath away one more time when he curls his fingers around both of them one more time.

Thomas feels in the edge of a cliff, and the only thing that's stopping him from falling into the abyss is Newt. He's clinging onto him so desperately he's pretty sure he's scratching his back. And at the same time, he feels like Newt is the one dragging him down. He's everywhere, Thomas can feel his taste on his lips, can feel his breath on his ears, his teeth on his jaw, his chest so hot against his own, his hand raising up goosebumps all over his skin, making him pant and twist and groan. Thomas wonders if this is what you feel like when you are going crazy, because he doesn't want to be sane again.

“Give me a hand here,” Newt moans low into Thomas's ear, it sounds like a plea, needy and on the verge of breaking, just as desperate as Thomas feels.

Thomas lets his hand wander down, Newt meets him half way, leads him until their hands are wrapped together around their dicks, Newt's fingers squeezing so tightly it's almost painful, but it adds a whole new layer of good sensations that Thomas can't name yet.

He doesn't even dare to look down at their hands, moving up and down frantically, sticky and clumsy. He closes his eyes, leans down until his lips meet Newt's throat, sucks down on a point where he can feel his pulse beating, hopes he can leave a mark there, not possessive, just as a reminder that Newt's heart is still beating, and he can make it beat faster and out of control.

Thomas clings onto Newt, drapes his other arm around him, presses their bodies together as close as he can, relishes in the fact that he's there, he's real , and they are falling apart together.

He's losing the bits of control he still has over himself, he can feel it low in his belly, the fire that keeps burning up, gaining intensity as time passes, as Newt speeds up the pace of their joined hands, strokes as fast as their arms can go. Newt's skin taste salty to Thomas's tongue, he's groaning softly into Thomas's ear, his fingers digging in the flesh of his thigh, still wrapped around Newt's wast. It's too much, Thomas isn't used to feeling this good, and his mouth falls open against Newt shoulder when Newt's hips start moving at the same pace as their hands.

Thomas can't take it anymore, the moment Newt pants out his name into his ear, sounding completely worn out and gone, he comes over both their fists and shirts, hot and hard. He doesn't know if he should be ashamed, he doesn't know if it's too soon, he has no clue how these things work, but he's too ruined to care, in a good way. Every kind of feeling is always in a good way when it comes to Newt.

He falls down against the tree, his leg still curled tightly around Newt's waist. He feels tingling all over, electrified and so hot he doesn't understand how Newt isn't on fire in all the places their bodies are touching. He feels so calm, even though his heart is still bouncing in his chest, blood buzzing in his ears. He stares at Newt, with his mouth wide open and dry, through half closed eyelids.

It's such a beautiful view, Thomas thinks he might get hard again just by staring at Newt. His eyes are shining with lust, his mouth is half open with the tip of his tongue peeking out, Thomas wants to lean in and bite his lips, but he can't move. Newt's hair is tousled, falling over his forehead, sticking to his skin there because of the sweat. His hand moves nonstop over his dick, stroking as fast as he can go, and Thomas kinda wants to reach out and do it for him, he kinda wants to go down on his knees and find out how he tastes like, but he's too gone to move. Newt's cheeks are bright red, blush going down his neck, getting lost behind the collar of his shirt. Thomas wishes this hadn't been so sudden, his hands itch with want, he wants to strip Newt down completely and find out where the blush stops. He wants to scratch his nails all over his skin, make goosebumps show up everywhere. Another time, he thinks, wishes. They still got time, he reminds himself.

Newt leans down against Thomas right before he comes, he attaches his lips to his throat, to the thin skin that covers his Adam's apple. He sucks hard, Thomas isn't sure if it's to stop himself from moaning out loud or to leave a mark that matches the one Thomas left on Newt's neck. He doesn't make any sound when he comes out, he just shudders in Thomas's arms until he goes lip and heavy against him.

They stay still for a while, tangled against the tree, until the sweat on Thomas's skin cools and he starts shaking, because of the cold, this time.

“Bloody fuck,” Newt mumbles, muffled, mouth pressed to Thomas's shoulder. He giggles a little, and Thomas decides this is one of his favorite things in the world, the sound of Newt's laughter, genuine and chirpy, the way his body shakes with it.

Thomas still feels to dizzy to do anything, so he lets Newt push his pants up for himself. He just stays there, leaning against the tree, hoping the wind can clear his mind, but he seems to be trapped in a fuzzy trance, where everything looks soft and round, he feels surrounded by cushions, just like the first time he kissed Newt.

“C'mon, you look like shit but I'm sure you can walk,” Newt jokes, pulling at Thomas's arm. Thomas goes along with it, wonders if Newt knows he'd go wherever he'd taking him without asking any questions. He feels so vulnerable, but his skin feels soft and warm, warmer than ever before.

They stop at Thomas's hut, Newt's touch tingles on Thomas's skin, where he's grabbing his wrist.

“Try to get some sleep, yeah Tommy?” the tone of his voice is unsure, as if he doesn't think it's possible, but wishes it'd be. “Don't over think too much, told ya you're bad at it.”

He lets go of Thomas's hand then, turns away to leave without waiting for an answer, and Thomas thinks it's a good time to get himself out of his quiet slump.

“Wait,” he says, louder than he meant to. Newt stops on his tracks, turns around to look at him with his eyebrows raised. “Why don't you stay the night?” Thomas asks, pointing to his hut with a motion of his head.

It's stupid, how ridiculously nervous he feels, considering what they've just done in the forest, out in the open, where anyone could walk up on them if it hadn't been so late already. He strokes his hands against his pants, tries to stop them from sweating.

“Do you want us to sleep together like a bloody marriage?” Newt mocks him, half a smile playing in the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head and starts walking away again. “Night, Tommy,” he says as he waves goodbye over his shoulder.

Thomas watches him go, and he can't help but smile as a fool. It's the first time since he can remember that he feels completely at peace. And when he goes to sleep, he's too worn out to even think, all he can feel is a fuzzy warmth all over his body. He doesn't know if this is what you feel when you're at home or when you're in love, but it's nice, no side pain or fear to it. He owes Newt so much.

-–-

Thomas has an odd, terrifying sense of d é j à vu the next morning. Minho wakes him up violently, shaking him awake, screaming right into his face.

Even though the hut is bright, the sunlight sliding in everywhere, he's taken aback to that time Minho woke him up like this in a berg. He had just gotten out of the maze, was exhausted and dirty, aching everywhere, he didn't know how to make his own legs work to run away from the cranks in the middle of the night and the desert.

Thomas sits up abruptly, looking around him frantically to prove nothing is threatening them. Minho's hand on his nape squeezing lightly is the only thing that calms him down.

“Thomas, it's nothing bad, listen to me,” he says, his voice higher than usual, but with excitement rather than fear.

The memories from the previous night hit Thomas like lightning, make him feel electrified everywhere, it's overwhelming in an anxious way. He looks at Minho in the eyes, at the light shining there, he wonders how he can look at him so clear and clean, without a bit of rancor, when Thomas tried to blame it all on him last night. He feels gross.

“Minho, I-” he tries, hands curling around Minho's biceps, holding on tight.

“Shut up and get out of bed. Now. I gotta show you something,” Minho interrupts him impatient. He shakes him up a little bit before he lets go and runs to the entrance of the hut, stays there waiting for Thomas with his hands crossed over his chest but his eyebrows lifted in something that looks like anticipation.

Thomas wastes no time, he gets out of bed and puts on his shoes as fast as he can. Only once he's out the hut and heading towards Newt, he realizes Minho's hair is damp, little drops of water fall down his neck, as if he's just gotten out of the shower and put on the first shirt he found without bothering to dry himself off first.

Newt is already awake when they get there, sitting cross legged in the middle of his bed, with an oversized white shirt and surrounded by pillows, eyes wide and expectant, looking at them like a curious child. Thomas wants to hug him so bad.

“So?” he asks, tilting his head to the side like an impatient kitten.

Thomas looks at Minho as he struggles to get something out the back pocket of his pants, his arms are shaking slightly, and Thomas wonders if it's because of his damp skin and wet hair, or because he's excited. The answer hits him hard as soon as Minho takes a small blue tube out of his pocket and holds it up in the air as if it's his most treasured possession. And it probably is, Thomas thinks, with his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“Tell me that is what I think it is,” Newt says, so low and frail it's almost too quiet for Thomas's ears, but the hut is suddenly so still he catches the words anyway, and the hopeful tone of Newt's voice makes his chest swell.

“What do you think it is?” Minho asks, his voice holding in so much emotion it trembles a little bit. Thomas thinks he's never seen Minho this moved since he woke up in Paradise, eyes wide open and shining, as if he's about to cry all the tears he's been holding back for so many months.

“It can't be,” Thomas hears himself say, too loud for his own ears.

He feels like he's outside of his body, watching it all from afar and in slow motion. His vision has a soft edge, everything feels mushy and gentle, but so fragile, as if he's inside of a dream that's going to break if he breathes too fast.

“You shanks thought I would stand with my arms crossed once everyone stopped looking for this?” Minho says, shaking the tube between his fingers. “I've been swimming every morning when everyone was still asleep, looking for this thing since Thomas dumped it in the ocean,” and suddenly Minho's damp hair and the drops of water over his skin make sense.

The first feeling that washes over Thomas's body is guilt, and it hits him so hard he feels his own ribs crushing his lungs. He has to bend down and cough a few times to calm himself down. The thought of Minho diving every single morning while everyone sleeps makes blood boil under his skin, but at the same time he feels cold all over. He wants to choke himself for ever doubting Minho, for thinking for a second that he wouldn't go through hell and back for Newt, for questioning the fact that he would give up anything for Newt just as fast as Thomas would (even faster, it seems).

The second feeling that washes over him is pure, raw relief. He's never felt anything quite like this before, as if suddenly all the weight he's been carrying on his shoulders is lifted, as if no matter what comes at him right now, nothing can hurt him. He feels so light and fresh, he straightens his back, takes a deep breath, rejoices in the fact that, for once, his lungs don't hurt.

And the third feeling that washes over him is a deep, cold fear. A bundle of what ifs make its way to the back of his mind, plant doubts about the future that he knows will be eating him away every single night since today. But he has no time to drown himself in pity again, because suddenly Minho is pulling at his arm and dragging him to the mess of limbs that are him and Newt on the bed.

Thomas doesn't think he's ever felt this happy in his entire life, with both Minho and Newt tangled around him, the only sound coming out of them is genuine, happy laughter, and some complain t s because Minho is almost squashing Newt with the weight of his body. He lets himself cry then, all the tears he's been holding back for months. He feels selfish, ruining the moment with his tears, crying when Newt is the one who should be breaking down, but Minho tickles him until his tears turn into laughter again, and they lose track of time thinking about the future they will be able to spend together, for real, this time.

---

Newt decides he wants to get the serum that same day, and it's when he's lying on bed, with the doctors by his sides, and half of the Paradise population inside of his hut staring at him, when fear starts to eat Thomas away.

He has this awful, cruel feeling that it won't work. What if it worked on Brenda but doesn't work on Newt, what if the water damaged it and it hurts Newt, what if Teresa lied to him and instead of helping Newt, it kills him. Countless what ifs are bottling up his head and lungs, he feels trapped, as if he's running out of oxygen, and the moment the syringe touches Newt's pa l e, thin arm, Thomas has to leave or he'll throw up.

Minho gets out right after him, a protective hand curled around hi s shoulder.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, his fingers squeezing lightly, eyebrows furrowed in concern and confusion.

Thomas still doesn't understand how he can be so openly warm and caring towards him when Thomas has been a selfish prick since the moment he regained conscience. He's been too busy drowning in self pity and kissing Newt to open his eyes and look further than his own feelings. Minho has been standing there all this time, watching over him even though he was suffering and lacking sleep, looking for a way to cure Newt while Thomas was mourning in advance.

“Thank you,” he blurts out, dry and fast, as if it hurts to say it out loud. It kinda does. “And I'm sorry,” Minho's frown deepens at that, his hand tightens its grip on Thomas's shoulder.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he replies, so painfully sincere Thomas hopes the ground opens up and swallows him down right there. “I just want to make sure you're feeling alright.”

“I'm just worried, you know? I have the permanent feeling that something's gonna go wrong,” Thomas explains, looking down at his feet. He's always gotta be the asshole who ruins the mood.

“I think we're doomed to live with that feeling forever,” even though Thomas isn't looking at him he can hear Minho's smile in his words. “But try to be positive for once, yeah? I'm pretty sure it's gonna work out. If it doesn't, we'll find another way.”

Thomas has to pull him into a hug to stop himself from breaking down right there. He hugs Minho as hard as he can, he hides his face in his shoulder, closes his eyes tightly and tries to bury his worries and fear deep inside himself. He'd burn down the world for Newt, and Minho would be standing by his side, proud and supportive, and that's all he needs to know to keep himself together.

He doesn't know for how long he stays there, clinging o nto Minho as if he's gonna suffocate if he lets go, but it's the only way he knows to thank him for everything. They are tangled up, physically and emotionally. They've saved each other's lives so many times, the bond they have is something Thomas knows will never break. He thinks about everyone that's inside the hut with Newt, all the people that was by his side in this wild ride, who stood by him and fought with him no matter what, and that still stand by him once they are safe and sound. They don't share blood, but he's sure what they have is stronger than genetics. If someone asked him who these people are, Thomas would answer family in a heartbeat.

---

After Newt gets the serum, they make him stay in bed for five days straight. He's moody, bored and angry, pouting all the time, glaring at Minho whenever he shows up in his hut.

“I'm perfectly fine, let me get up,” he complains every three minutes, and Thomas just laughs at him and changes the topic.

The thing is, Thomas is so damn scared, and he knows Minho is, too. Scared he'll wake up one day to find Newt convulsing in bed, fighting against his own in sanity, his skin cold and black. It's the same fear that crawled up his neck when they gave Brenda the serum and they knew they couldn't do anything else for her but wait.

He knows Newt is scared too, he sees it in the way he stares at his hands as soon as he wakes up, as if he's making sure his veins aren't swollen, his hands are steady and under control. He sees it in the way he mumbles in his sleep, begs Thomas to end his life under his breath, over and over, until Thomas can't bear it anymore and has to leave to stop himself from screaming. He sees it in the way Newt runs his fingers over his own arm absentmindedly, right over the tiny scars the syringes left, Thomas's hands shake with need, he wants trace the marks, smooth them with his pads and promise Newt he won't have to damage his skin anymore. But he doesn't, because he himself doesn't believe it, at least, not yet.

Still, Newt manages to take the heat out of the situation to make Thomas more comfortable. Because he's way better at acting than Thomas will ever be , and he's the most selfless person he's ever met.

“You won't need that anymore,” Newt says, on his third day trapped in his own bed.

He leans towards Thomas, sitting in an uncomfortable chair as close to Newt as he can. He tangles his fingers in the necklace that's been tied around Thomas's neck all this time, the back of Newt's hand brushes over the sensitive skin of Thomas's throat, he can feel goosebumps raising there, his whole body tingles just with that small gesture. It hits Thomas right there it's been four days since the last time he got to kiss Newt, the want is so heavy and tangible he feels dizzy.

“I haven't read it yet,” he answers, voice low and rough. Thomas wonders if this will ever get better, if he'll ever stop feeling so vulnerable and getting so worked up around Newt. By the way his heart jumps when Newt flashes a crooked smile at him and tugs at his necklace to bring him even closer, he's pretty sure the answer is no.

“You don't need to, I can tell you all about it myself,” Newt shoots back, his eyes bright and the tip of his tongue peeking out the corner of his lips, as if he knows exactly the effect he has over Thomas. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Thomas has to swallow hard to keep himself together. He doesn't know if he wants to fight or if he wants to lean all the way in and kiss Newt to shut him up. He's stuck, as it always happens when it comes to Newt, so he ends up staying still staring at Newt's half open mouth. Newt just lets out a little giggle, lets go of Thomas's necklace and flops down i nto bed again .

When Newt falls asleep out of boredom, Thomas goes back to his hut and takes off the necklace. He doesn't get rid of it, but hides it under his pillow and hopes he will never have to read it to remember Newt.

---

Once Minho lets Newt get out of bed, the three of them go to the beach, they sit together over the sand, staring at the shore, pressed from shoulder to knee.

Thomas still can't quite believe how peaceful life is here, the only thing threatening him are his own memories and, even though he's sure he won't be able to get rid of them any time soon, he's getting better at keep ing his emotions under control. The ocean doesn't look dangerous anymore, the mountains that surround Paradise aren't claustrophobic, it all feels like a protecting wall, as if he's inside of a bubble that can't be busted.

He still has the feeling that it all will end at some point, just like the Glade ended up being a mortal trap, just like WCKD felt safe for a split second before it turned into their worst nightmare. But right there, with Newt and Minho sitting by his side, Newt squeezed between the two of them, he feels like he can face any danger that comes at him. He's more than ready to fight for the first place he can actually call home.

“The mighty gladers, back together forever,” Minho says out of the blue, and Thomas has the urge to ask him to shut up and don't jinx it, but when he looks at him Minho is smiling, happy wrinkles taking over his face, his eyes closed in half moons, and Thomas can't help but smile back in the most genuine way he's done since he can remember.

“That rhymes and everything,” Newt says, patting Minho's back. “Twice.”

“Of course it rhymes, shank. I'm a genius. What would y'all do without me?” and Thomas doesn't know, honestly. They'd be a mess without him, not just Newt and him, but the whole Paradise.

Thomas feels like he hasn't thanked Minho enough for everything he's done, doesn't think he'll ever be able to do it, can't find words that convey everything he feels. Every time he tries to bring it up, Minho shuts him up with a stern glare, and that's just one more thing he has to add to the list of things he's thankful for.

“Minho, I need you over here!” Brenda shouts at their backs, when Thomas turns to look at her she's waving an arm towards them exasperatedly. “No one told you today was your day off!”

Minho sighs dramatically, he gets up and shakes sand off his clothes. Thomas follows suit surprised when he sees Newt get ting up too.

“Duty calls, friends,” Minho says as he stretches his arms. “You're so lucky you don't have to work.”

“You won't let us!” Thomas complains, pushing him on the shoulder. “Our wounds have been healed for years, we couldn't be more bored.”

“Would you stop acting like a whiny shank if I let you get to work tomorrow?”

“Bloody hell, finally,” Newt says as he takes his shirt off, Thomas stares at his bare chest with his mouth hanging open in confusion. “We're gonna swim to celebrate, get your clothes off, Tommy,” he commands unbothered, waving his fingers in front of Thomas's face to snap him out of it.

“Oh, I'd rather work than stay here to witness this,” Minho says turning his back on them and joggling towards Brenda. Newt just rolls his eyes as he takes his pants off, too. “If you go in too deep, I won't be the one dragging your asses out of there so you don't drown!” Minho screams over his shoulder.

“As if you hadn't done it before!” Thomas shoots back as he gets rid of his clothes, and Minho flips him off without looking back. Laughing freely without pain striking your ribs is one of the best things Thomas has ever felt.

When they get into the water Thomas starts shaking instantly, but it's out of pure cold and nothing else. He doubts he'll ever get used to it, to pure feelings that aren't stained by guilt, remorse and sadness. He doesn't have much time to think about it, because Newt is already splashing water, getting it into his eyes and mouth.

Thomas tries to fight back, he hits the surface of the sea as he moves closer to Newt, grabs onto his forearms and threatens to pull him down and not letting him get out.

“You think you're stronger than me?” Newt dares him, eyes twinkling in a way Thomas feels nothing but freedom when he stares at him.

Newt tangles himself around Thomas, the water makes it easier for him to curl his legs around Thomas's waist and trap him there, pressed up against him, unable to move, as if Thomas would want to be anywhere else right now. Or ever.

Thomas can't stop shaking, not even when Newt's body is so close to him, warm and slippery. He isn't sure if he's trembling because of the cold water or because of the sight before him. Newt's wearing the widest smile Thomas has ever seen in his face, the edges of his eyes are wrinkled up, he's scrunching up his nose and Thomas has to suppress the strong need of leaning in and kissing the tip. His hair is all tousled, wet strands sticking to his forehead, drops of water f all from the sides of his face, down his neck and to his chest, Thomas wants to pick up every single one of them with his tongue.

His eyes get caught in the white scar on Newt's chest, right over his heart. It's the first time Thomas sees it, the tangible memory that Newt was almost stabbed to death, and he didn't stop it. It's there again, the guilt, rattling up his spine and creeping over his shoulders, and Thomas lifts up a hand to stop it, places it over the scar, presses down so he can feel it, Newt's heart beating against his palm, strong and steady. The feel of it always makes it easier to breathe.

“Stop over thinking, told ya, you aren't good at it,” Newt says then, snapping Thomas out of his own thoughts. He curls his fingers around Thomas's ears, thumbs pressing on his jaw to lift up his head and look him in the eye. “That's why you're always having breakdowns.”

Thomas raises his eyebrows and moves his hand away f rom Newt's chest just to sneak his arms around his wais t , he pulls him closer to his body, as close as he can.

“You acting as if you don't have them,” he fights back, his fingers tracing the muscles of Newt's back, sliding up his spine and over his shoulders. Newt shivers against him and Thomas relishes in the fact that he has as much effect on Newt as Newt has on him.

“I almost died, I'm allowed to have breakdowns,” Newt replies as he sinks his fingers into Thomas's hair, pulls at it a little to expose his neck.

This is cheating, Thomas thinks in the back of his mind, as Newt leans in to trace the line of his throat with his tongue, all the way up to his chin, where he bites down faintly, makes Thomas squirm and gasp, still trapped between his legs. He can't fight properly when Newt is all over him, but it feels to o good to complain.

“I almost died, too,” he protests, his voice coming out breathy and ragged, it isn't convincing at all.

“Yes, once,” Newt whispers into his ear, tugs at his earlobe with his teeth to drag a moan out of Thomas's throat before he adds. “I almost died three times, Tommy.”

“Shut up,” Thomas pulls back a little, glares at Newt with his eyebrows raised in annoyance, because this shouldn't be a topic to argue about, like a competition. Even though he knows Newt is playing, he isn't ready for it yet. He hopes Newt catches the indirect, even if he doesn't look annoyed at all, he's sure he's blushing all the way up his chest to the tip of his nose, his eyes wide open and dark with want.

“I was waiting for you to do it yourself,” Newt breathes out as he leans in, traps Thomas's lips in an easy kiss that tastes like salt and promises of a brighter future.

Newt licks into his mouth until the taste of the ocean is gone. He slides his tongue against Thomas 's until the guilt hovering over him disappears completely. He bites down on Thomas's lower lip to replace fear with pleasure. He threads his fingers between Thomas's wet hair to make him feel safe and loved instead of threatened and exposed.

“Stop bloody thinking,” Newt whispers when he pulls back a little to catch his breath. “It's all over.”

And for once, Thomas believes it . Even though he knows Newt still chokes o n the memory of the taste of that dark, gross liquid that came out of his mouth when he was losing his mind. Even though he knows Minho can't sleep for more than two hours straight, gets trapped in sleep paralysis almost everyday, screams until his lungs burn. Even though he knows he's gonna have to live with fear on his heels for the rest of his life, dreading to open his eyes every morning to find Newt half gone, with guilt as his shadow forever.

Right there, with his body pressed up against Newt, breathing him in, he feels totally and completely safe, for once. This place feels like Paradise.