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Another night, another nightmare. Thomas jolted awake, sitting straight up in his makeshift bed. His chest heaved as he took in huge gulps of air, and his skin was coated in a layer of sweat. His hair stuck to his forehead. He could feel the uncomfortable prickle of tears on his lash line.
Every time he closed his eyes, Newt’s face, disease ridden and contorted in a way that showed how painful the Flare was, popped into his head. It was burned into his eyelids and a small part of him was okay with it as long as it meant he could still remember what the other boy looked like. Tonight was one of the worse ones, moments before Newt had—
He dreamt often.
Sometimes he would see Teresa, falling from the collapsing WCKD building, arm outstretched and just out of reach. Sometimes she was as he last saw her, and sometimes she was replaced by the version of her from his limited childhood memories.
Sometimes he saw Chuck, leaping in front of him as Gally shot him. He remembered the younger’s curly brown hair, his sweet smile, the way he could get on his nerves like nothing else and how fond he was regardless of that. He remembered how it felt as his life bled out of his body in Thomas’ arms.
Sometimes he saw Alby, snatched by a Griever, pain in his eyes with the memories of the time before the Glade. The boy (because he was only a boy) who had introduced him to things around the Glade, who had tried his best to be kind despite his gruff demeanor.
He saw many others. Winston. Ben. Zart. Hell, sometimes he saw Dr. Paige.
Mostly, though, he just dreamed about Newt. Eyes darkened with his illness, hair wild. He heard his voice, screaming at Thomas to let him die. Begging him, “Please, Tommy. Please.” The knife sticking out of his stomach and his slow collapse to the floor. Realizing that he could have saved him.
But the worst, in his opinion, were the dreams where nothing bad happened. Chuck was eating breakfast with Alby and Minho in the dining hall. Teresa was awkwardly talking to someone, anyone, and being forgiven. The Gladers were all together, laughing and hugging and being happy.
Newt, smirking at him after making some clever remark, turning to watch everyone at the Safe Haven. Newt, helping him up out of bed or from a spot on the floor or being helped up by Thomas. Newt, snickering at something Minho had said and calling him out on embellishing his stories. Newt, telling Thomas more about his time in the Glade, before Thomas. Newt, alive.
He thought those were the worst because he believed it, just for a second, upon waking up. And then reality came crashing down, and he realized that everything had changed, and he had been able to do nothing about it.
By now, his body had calmed down as much as it could. He was no longer fighting to breathe. He’d stopped sweating, though now his skin was uncomfortably cold. His heartbeat was even almost normal.
He took one final deep breath and got out of bed, ready to continue as he had ever since coming to this place. He stopped by the memorial as the sun peaked out of the sky, tracing everyone’s names and remembering. He rested his forehead on the cool stone before walking away, holding their memories close to his chest.
Another day.