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They had indulged in too much of Brenda’s herbs and Gally’s latest brew, a new concoction, and now they lay draped around the bonfire, slouched against weathered logs arranged like rough benches on the beach. The sandy ground, still warm from the late sun’s rays, even though it had long slipped behind the horizon.
Newt had watched as the sea snuffed out the fiery hues of sunset. Red and orange bled into the sky, mirroring the burning buildings and collapsing streets in memories he’d tried to bury. It might have unsettled him if not for the haze of smoke and alcohol numbing his senses. A strange calm had settled over him, one he didn’t dare question. He wasn’t in the mood to drag out the memories he had carefully locked away, not tonight. Not when he felt so wonderfully light, like never before. As the deep red dissolved into a medley of purples and pinks, slowly giving way to the familiar blue glow of the night, Newt knew the colours hadn’t disappeared. They lived on in him.
The others might think darkness had taken them, brazenly stolen from the sky when they weren't looking, but Newt knew better. He could feel the red pulsing through his veins, the orange spreading a comforting warmth through his chest. The violet swayed with his heartbeat, and the pink danced behind his closed eyelids. It had been so long since he’d felt like this. Had he ever?
Tommy. Being with Thomas is the closest to it, he realised. Opening his eyes a fraction, he glanced across the fire at the boy who occupied his thoughts.
Thomas was looking back. Newt’s heart, which had been keeping a slow, steady rhythm, stumbled and picked up speed. They were separated only by the crackling fire, the flickering shadows playing across their faces as sparks rose into the night. Thomas appeared relaxed, one arm draped over the log as he chatted with Gally, who passed him another cup of brew. Teresa joined them, slipping effortlessly beside Thomas, and Newt’s heart sank. Thomas didn’t notice the shift in Newt's mood; he laughed and threw an arm around Teresa, pulling her closer. She leaned into him, smiling, and the bittersweet taste in Newt’s mouth dissolved into cold ash.
It had started back in the Glade. As soon as Teresa arrived in the box, Newt just knew his feelings for Thomas would never be returned. Not with her around. Under the influence of the Flare, it had been excruciating. Now, it was more bearable.
What mattered most to him was Thomas’ happiness. That he was alive. Yet every time Newt saw them together, it broke him a little more. When Thomas announced that Teresa would be moving into their tent, Newt didn’t argue. He simply packed his things and left.
His feelings toward Teresa were complicated. He didn’t hate her, not anymore, but he didn’t like her much either. He respected her. She had been the one to discover that Thomas' blood carried the cure, the one who still believed when everyone else had given up. Newt owed her his life—and Thomas’. That was enough to absolve her of past wrongs.
Across the fire, Thomas deftly rolled another joint, the motion almost hypnotic. Newt found himself staring, then quickly averted his gaze, letting it drift over the others—Brenda, Fry, Minho, Gally, Aris, and the girls. They were all that was left of Maze A and B. The rest were gone, no more than names engraved on a stone.
It had become a ritual of sorts. Just as they had once welcomed the Newbies to the Glade, they now gathered on this beach, near the memorial stone, to honour those they had lost: Alby, Jeff, Clint, Chuck, Jack, Winston. Newt nearly made that list as well. Just another name on that bloody stupid rock. Absentmindedly, he reached for the necklace hanging from his neck, a reminder of how close he had come. It had been a year since he had not died, yet at times it almost felt like he did.
On nights like this, when the haze of drugs and alcohol blurred reality, life felt surreal, like it didn’t belong to him—a dream, a possibility never meant for him to take. How had he, the boy who had escaped the Maze and defied the Scorch, ended up here, celebrating life? The pendant felt heavy in his palm, and when he slipped it back under his shirt, the cool metal rested against the scar on his chest. The wound had healed better than expected, leaving only a faint ridge of red on his skin. They all bore scars now, some visible, some buried deep.
This one, Newt had inflicted upon himself. He had chosen it, because he would rather have died than hurt Thomas.
The Last City hadn’t left him unscathed either. Janson’s bullet had nearly killed Thomas, and the recovery had taken its toll. But it hadn’t dimmed his spirit. Now, in the yellow glow of the fire, he looked healthy—his cheeks no longer sunken, his skin golden from the sun. Thomas looked good. To Newt’s love-struck eyes, though, there had never been a time when he hadn’t.
At some point, Thomas and Teresa began kissing. Newt watched, lost in a daze, time slipping away. Minutes? Hours? He couldn’t tell. Someone, maybe Fry or Minho, handed him another joint, and he inhaled, white smoke curling from his lips as he kept his gaze fixed on Thomas, even when he knew he shouldn’t.
It wasn’t jealousy he felt, not quite. It was something else, a prodigious perception. As if it wasn’t Teresa kissing Thomas, but him. As if it was Newt’s hands on Thomas’ body. Had he been sober, Newt would never have let the thought take root. But sobriety had long since abandoned him, and as Teresa’s hand slid toward Thomas’ lap, Newt’s breath caught.
Thomas was hard, the outline of his erection visible beneath his pants. And when Newt’s gaze drifted upward, he saw Teresa looking straight at him.
Teresa’s eyes locked with Newt’s across the fire, sharp and knowing. For a brief second, Newt froze, the weight of everything crashing down on him. But instead of looking away, Teresa’s lips curled into a small, almost secretive smile. She didn’t pull back from Thomas, but the way her fingers moved—slower now, deliberate—felt like a challenge. Or an invitation.
Newt's mind was swimming, the smoke and alcohol twisting his thoughts into knots he couldn’t untangle. It was like the world around him had taken on a strange, new shape, where nothing felt impossible anymore. Maybe it was the herbs, or maybe it was the way Teresa held his gaze, as if she knew what he wanted—what he’d always wanted.
The fire crackled, sparks popping into the cool night air. Thomas, unaware of the silent exchange between Teresa and Newt, leaned back against the log, his head tipping lazily to the side as he let out a soft groan. He was blissfully lost in the sensations, his free hand now gripping Teresa’s thigh, and it sent a wave of heat through Newt that was impossible to ignore.
Newt’s breath came in uneven bursts, and he wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or something else entirely. He should have felt disgusted with himself, should tore his gaze away and leave them to it, but instead, he found himself caught in the moment. He couldn’t deny it anymore.
He wanted Thomas.
And the strangest thing of all was that Teresa didn’t seem to mind.
Finally, Thomas opened his eyes, blinking lazily. He glanced between the two of them, his hazy, intoxicated mind slowly piecing together what was happening. Newt waited for him to pull away, for him to say something or break the strange tension that had settled over them.
But Thomas didn’t.
"Newt," he mumbled, his voice low and rough from the alcohol, "you... okay over there?"
The question hung in the air, but it wasn’t the casual, drunken inquiry it might have seemed. There was something else beneath it. Something vulnerable. Thomas’ eyes met Newt’s, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the fire, the beach, the night sky above them. It was just the two of them, with Teresa watching quietly.
Newt hesitated, his throat tightening. How could he answer that? He had spent so long hiding his emotions, burying them under layers of friendship and loyalty, that now, in the light of the fire, he didn’t know what to say.
"Yeah," he finally breathed, though the word felt like a lie. "I’m fine, Tommy."
Thomas blinked, murmuring something to Teresa that Newt couldn’t quite catch. Teresa stood, a sly grin curling her lips as she moved toward him. Newt’s pulse quickened in confusion, his chest tightening. She dropped into the sand in front of him, close enough that the faint scent of lavender filled his senses, overwhelming his already hazy mind. Then, without warning, she kissed him.
At first, Newt thought she might’ve stumbled, maybe lost her balance. But the kiss was deliberate, her movements too practised, the pressure of her lips too firm for it to be an accident. His mind struggled to catch up with what was happening, each second stretching painfully long until—finally—clarity snapped into place. He pushed her back, breaking the contact with a gasp.
“What—” he began, but his voice faltered when his gaze drifted back to Thomas. The joint in his hand hung forgotten as his eyes stayed fixed on Newt, dark and hungry.
Okay, this is interesting, Newt thought, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
Teresa, watching him intently, leaned back in without hesitation. This time, Newt didn’t resist. He let her kiss him again, softer now, her lips brushing his with more purpose. His mind swam, but it wasn’t Teresa he was thinking about. It was Thomas—his curious, heated gaze, the way it made Newt’s blood roar in his veins.
Teresa’s hand grazed dangerously close to his aching groin, and for a moment, Newt was consumed by the haze of lust, almost ready to give in. But when her fingers brushed against him, his body reacted instinctively, flinching away from her touch.
“Told you it wasn’t me he’s looking at,” Teresa said, her voice carrying a triumphant edge. She stood up smoothly, her hand reaching for Newt’s. He hesitated only a second before taking it, allowing her to lead him across the sand toward Thomas. His heart pounded in his chest, each step amplifying the strange mix of excitement and uncertainty thrumming through him.
With a nudge, Teresa guided him onto Thomas’ lap, his knees straddling Thomas’ thighs. Thomas let out a surprised sound, his breath hitching, but the hand not holding the joint immediately slid around Newt’s back, pulling him closer, keeping him there. The warmth of Thomas’ touch sent a shiver down Newt’s spine, igniting every nerve.
Teresa leaned over Thomas' shoulder, her breath warm as it brushed Newt’s cheek. Her kiss was slower this time, more deliberate, and the angle made the moment feel strangely intimate, as if she were connecting them all in some unspoken way. Newt’s head swam, caught between the heady taste of Teresa’s kiss and the electric tension buzzing through him from Thomas’ touch.
The kiss did nothing for him, but it clearly did for Thomas. And that was enough for Newt to keep going. The hand on his back crept under his shirt, fingers digging into his heated skin, sending ripples of sensation through him. He felt Thomas twitch against his thigh, the physical reaction driving a strange, dizzying thrill through his own body.
Teresa’s touch lingered as she withdrew, gently nudging Newt toward Thomas. When their lips met, it was as if a spark had ignited within him. What began as a timid connection rapidly grew into something more urgent. Newt’s breath faltered as a surge of heat rushed through him, every nerve on edge. It wasn’t so different from kissing Teresa, but knowing it was Thomas’ lips on his now changed everything. He was kissing Thomas. That realisation hit him with the force of a tidal wave, the weight of everything unsaid crashing down. The kiss deepened, intensity building, wild and unrestrained, yet somehow tender—leaving Newt trembling and breathless, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it and yearning for more.
“There you go,” Teresa's voice came from somewhere to his right, distant and muffled, as if they were separated by a pane of glass.
Moans—someone’s, maybe his own, maybe Thomas’—filled the air, and he felt hands on him, more than two, though he wasn’t sure whose. Thomas pulled away for a breath, and Newt blinked, dazed, glancing around the fire. Harriet, Sonya, Minho, Gally, and Aris were blurred figures beyond the dancing flames, their outlines hazy against the sparks that spiralled into the night. Brenda and Frypan were nowhere to be seen.
When did they leave?
Teresa smiled at him, an encouraging gleam in her eyes, her presence suddenly more grounding than before. Emboldened, Newt’s fingers found their way to Thomas’ waistband, slowly undoing his pants. Thomas leaned back, panting softly, his cheeks flushed. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the look in his eyes half-lidded and vulnerable.
“Isn’t he pretty like that?” Teresa whispered close to Newt’s ear, her breath tickling his skin. “You should tell him—he likes being called pretty.”
The words hung in the air, thick and charged. Newt’s mind flickered with fleeting clarity, and a shadow of doubt crept in. What had Brenda given them? She’d said it was safe, but this didn’t feel safe. Not in the way his sober mind understood safety. There was a voice in the back of his head, whispering that he would never be doing this if he were himself. But that voice was faint, numbed by the haze of everything happening around him.
And Thomas—Tommy —was blue, a steady and reliable force, like the endless sky above or the rhythmic consistency of waves breaking on the shore. Newt had always been yellow, consumed by cowardice and jealousy. But together, they were green. Green like life, like hope, like the memories they clung to in a world so full of loss.
As for what Teresa brought into the mix? Newt couldn’t quite tell yet. He didn’t care, not as long as Thomas felt good, not as long as Thomas wanted him there. He let the moment sweep him away again, the weight of Thomas beneath him, the warmth of Teresa beside him, all spinning in a storm of touch, sound, and the blurred firelight of the beach.
The next morning, Newt awoke slowly, his senses returning in fragments—the warmth of the early sun filtering through the fabric of the tent, the soft rustle of waves rolling onto the shore in the distance, and the feeling of another body curled up against him. He blinked, the haze of sleep still clinging to him, before the realisation hit: he was naked.
His heart lurched into his throat, panic surging through him as memories from the night before came rushing back in disjointed flashes. He began to shift, trying to untangle himself, but from Thomas’ other side, Teresa’s hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist. She shook her head, silently urging him to stay.
“He wants you here,” she mouthed, her eyes soft but insistent.
Newt tensed, his throat tightening. “Wouldn’t bloody bet on that,” he replied, harsher than he intended. The words felt jagged, scraping his tongue.
Teresa’s grip on his wrist loosened, but she held his gaze. “He missed you.”
Newt scoffed, though it lacked any real conviction. “Well, he’s got you, doesn’t he?”
“You’re not aware of how much you mean to him,” Teresa countered, her voice low and steady.
Newt’s heart twisted painfully. “Not as much as you mean to him.”
“This is no competition, Newt,” she said firmly. “His heart is big enough for both of us.”
Newt swallowed, struggling to find the right words. “But… I thought he chose—he’s with you.”
Teresa exhaled softly, sitting up slightly as she spoke. “And Minho is with Sonya, even though he spends most of his nights with Gally, while Sonya stays at Harriet’s. And while Brenda and Frypan are pretty much exclusive, they’ve both been with Gally before.”
Newt frowned. “And you don’t mind?”
“Mind what?” Teresa smirked faintly. “People doing as they please?”
Newt shifted uncomfortably. “Me being in love with Thomas.”
A knowing smile tugged at Teresa’s lips. “It’s not exactly coming as a surprise, Newt,” she said. “And no, I don’t mind. As long as you’re fine with sharing.”
Newt blinked, his mind reeling. Sharing? It was a concept he hadn’t even considered.
“I guess… I’ve never—,” he muttered, feeling out of his depth.
Teresa slowly peeled herself away from the warmth of the blanket, stretching languidly. “You two probably have a lot to talk about,” she said, her tone softening. “I’m not much of a cuddler anyway, but Tom’s into that.” She winked before quietly slipping out of the tent, leaving Newt behind in a swirl of thoughts and feelings.
Newt exhaled, letting himself relax again as Thomas remained beside him, warm and content, his steady breathing lulling Newt back into a light sleep.
When Newt woke next, it was to a hand tracing across sensitive skin, igniting a trail of sensation that made his breath hitch. His eyes fluttered open, and he found Thomas watching him, eyes bright and focused.
It felt like waking up in the Scorch again, all those stolen moments when they’d sleep close together, just to stay alive. But this was different—intimate in a way that sent a jolt through Newt. They were both naked now, and Newt didn’t need to hide the evidence of his arousal. Thomas had already found it, his hand wrapped around Newt’s length, moving with slow, deliberate strokes.
“I missed this,” Thomas whispered, his voice rough from sleep.
Newt questioningly raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his breathing steady. As far as he remembered, he had never woken up to Thomas jerking him off before.
“Waking up next to you,” Thomas clarified, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Newt’s heart did a strange flip, and before he could think too much about it, their lips met again. The kiss was unhurried, lazy in the way of a quiet morning, but the intensity behind it built quickly. Thomas shifted, pressing Newt further into the soft blankets beneath them as he moved on top. He braced himself with one hand on the ground, the other wrapped around both their cocks, stroking them together. Newt arched up into the touch, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as pleasure shot through him like fire.
The warmth of the tent surrounded them like a cocoon, the distant sound of the waves mingling with their ragged breaths. Newt’s hands roamed Thomas’ back, fingers digging into muscle as he pressed closer, the weight of Thomas’ body grounding him in this surreal, intoxicating moment.
Just as the world around them began to blur again, Teresa’s voice cut through the fog.
“So that’s what you guys mean by ‘talking things out?’” she teased, poking her head into the tent with a smirk.
Newt immediately stiffened, his body freezing in place. His face flushed hot with embarrassment, but Thomas remained unbothered. He didn’t break his rhythm, leaning down to press another kiss to Newt’s lips as if nothing had interrupted them.
“Give us two minutes,” he said casually, his voice calm and steady, even as he continued to touch Newt.
Teresa chuckled, holding up a small basket. “I’ve got breakfast with me. If you hurry up, you might still get some.”
With a final amused glance, she stepped back out of the tent, leaving the two of them alone once more.
Newt exhaled, his chest rising and falling quickly as he looked up at Thomas, who met his gaze with a mischievous grin. “You heard her, we better hurry,” Thomas whispered, leaning in for another kiss as the sounds of the beach outside faded into the background.