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When Thomas wakes up, it's to the faint glow of dawn. The pounding deluge of rain against pavement he fell asleep to is absent, replaced by a quiet so loud his ears ache.
The storm has passed.
Glad to no longer be in any immediate danger, he takes a quick glance at his surroundings. The building they're taking shelter in looks more like the hollowed-out shell of what once was a building. Massive holes litter each floor dozens of stories high. Thomas can see almost all the way to the top. A soft, barely visible light filters in through the gaps. The sun must be starting to rise.
The Gladers are still sleeping, everyone loosely grouped around one another. Minho is curled up near the center, breathing heavily but steadily, muttering softly in his sleep. Thomas can only take that as a good sign that the lightning didn't hurt him too badly. Scanning the sleeping forms of the other boys, though, one particular absence quickly stands out to him.
Newt is missing.
He made it into the shelter last night. Thomas remembers the older boy checking on him once his hearing finally returned, murmuring reassuring words into his still-buzzing ears. It was the only thing that managed to calm Thomas down enough to finally surrender to sleep.
Now, he scrambles to sit up, ignoring the stiff ache throughout his body in favor of looking for Newt. It's early enough that the building is still fairly dark, suffused with the dim blue light of dawn. Far away from the rest of the group, shrouded in hazy shadow, he spots Newt leaning against a wall. Thomas can faintly tell that he's awake, staring blankly out into the middle of the room somewhere. Quickly but quietly, he makes his way across the sleeping Gladers.
"Newt?"
The older boy startles, his eyes suddenly snapping into focus on Thomas. "Oh- Tommy." The tension melts from his shoulders, and a small smile settles on his lips. "Don't you just look bloody fantastic?"
Thomas can't help but agree. The sight of Newt, with his dirt-smudged face and windswept hair, is like an instant balm of relief on his fried nerves. He settles down next to him against the wall, and Newt doesn't hesitate to slot himself against his side, resting his head on his shoulder. Despite the already uncomfortable heat permeating the air, Thomas welcomes the warm flush that spreads throughout his body.
"You okay?" he asks softly. "Is your leg bothering you?"
He's noticed the other boy's limp worsening ever since their escape from the Maze. A strange thought comes over him then, to reach over and draw Newt's bad leg into his lap and ease the tension out with his hands. But before he can move, Newt grabs his hand and tangles their fingers together, almost as if he can read his mind.
"My leg is fine, Tommy. I'm fine. We're alive, aren't we? All that about matters at this point."
Bitterness colors the undertone of his voice. Thomas squeezes his hand, and Newt returns it. They lapse into silence, watching the boys sleep as the first few rays of sunlight start to slip through the shattered windows. Illuminated motes of dust and sand swirl through the air.
Inevitably, lost in the quiet moment, his thoughts wander to Teresa. He's hardly been able to stop worrying about her since he last saw her in that strange house. Is she still out there right now, lost somewhere in the Scorch? Did the storm reach her? He wishes he could see her right now.
Thomas's gaze drops down at their entwined hands, tracing the arc of Newt's thumb skimming over the tops of his knuckles with his eyes. Thinking about her while he's with Newt like this makes his stomach prickle with guilt.
Not that he understands what like this even means. Somewhere, during some step in this hellish journey, Thomas started placing Newt and Teresa in the same category in his mind. Thinking of them in similar ways - two pieces of a part of him, both equally as confusing to him as they are important. Maybe since Newt shared his bunk in the dormitory, when they woke up together, warm and drowsy. Maybe it goes back even further than that, since the Maze.
He still hasn't told the other boy about what happened that night. About the kiss that Teresa gave him. Considering everything they've been through and everything they stand to face, telling Newt about it should be the lowest item on his list of worries right now. He certainly doesn't feel guilty for keeping it a secret from any of the other Gladers. It's only with Newt that it really feels that way - like a secret. Like the act of withholding it from him is, in some way, a betrayal.
"Newt, I need to tell you something…"
Newt makes a soft, sleepy noise against him, like he's starting to drift off again. "Mm?"
He glances down at the other boy. His eyes are closed, his cheek endearingly squished into Thomas's shoulder. Suddenly, Thomas finds it hard to speak. Newt looks so peaceful. But when a second passes with no reply, Newt opens his eyes, tilting his head to glance up at him.
"Tommy?"
Thomas has to tell him. He has to. He can't keep this to himself a moment longer.
"I kissed Teresa."
Newt goes rigid. He pushes himself out from Thomas's side, turning around to stare at him. He's frowning, and the little downwards tilt to his mouth twists like glass in Thomas's chest. Again, that strange urge to soothe it away wells up inside him.
"What?"
"The other night, when I saw her in the desert. She… We kissed."
Newt's mouth falls open, and his shoulders sag, like the words are a physical blow. It only lasts for a moment, until suddenly he becomes all tense lines and edges again. His hands clench into fists against his sides.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I don't know," Thomas whispers. He wants Newt's hands back in his own. "I'm just- trying to understand, I think."
"Understand what, exactly?"
How can Thomas ever possibly hope to put this insurmountable, ever-growing wave of feelings he has for Newt into words, when he can barely comprehend them himself?
The desperation rising inside him crests and breaks. Thomas surges forward, smashing their lips together. It's like jumping headfirst into the deep end. Immediately, he's reeling from the force of the kiss, drowning in the flood of sensations. Newt's breath catches sharply against his mouth, a gasp, and Thomas leans into it, hand cupping the side of Newt's neck to steady himself.
Hair cascades between his fingers, coarse and gritty with sand. It feels nothing like Teresa's soft, clean hair had when they kissed. Everything about Newt is rougher - he has a little patch of stubble on his top lip, and his mouth is dry and chapped.
Thomas likes it. He likes every bit of it.
Suddenly, a hand smacks into his chest, pushing him hard into the back wall. His head knocks against the concrete, and as the room spins around him, a realization washes over him as cold as ice.
Newt hadn't kissed him back.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do that?" Newt whispers fiercely, his hand gripped tightly around the collar of Thomas's shirt.
Why? The question swirls in his mind like the dust in the air. Why? Thomas doesn't know. He feels lightheaded, dizzy, struggling to suck air in through his lungs. Because he wanted it to feel like kissing Teresa had? But -
"You're not her. You're nothing like her at all."
"No," Newt says sharply. "I'm not. Sorry I can't be like your girlfriend, Thomas."
A single thought cuts through the haze of his mind. Thomas has to squeeze his eyes shut against the weight of it. Can't even bear to look at Newt as he admits, "Why does it feel so good then? That you're not her? Why did I like it…?"
The grip on his shirt loosens. "Oh, Tommy…" He hears Newt sigh, and something about the sound is sad, almost pitying. "I think the hunger is starting to get to you. You miss Teresa, and you're confused."
He cracks his eyes open. Newt smiles, but it's hollow, directed somewhere past Thomas and not at him. His hand still lingers on his chest, and Thomas wonders if he can feel his pounding heartbeat beneath his knuckles.
"We'll find some food soon, and it'll all be right as rain. No hard feelings. We can forget all about it, hm? Good that?"
"Good that," Thomas echoes. It doesn't feel right to leave things like this. He doesn't want to just forget about what happened. He wants to go back to before he ever said anything, with Newt still pressed into his side like he's never belonged anywhere else. He wants to ruin it all over again, just for one more chance to kiss him again. "But, Newt, I-"
A long, stretched-out groan interrupts him. It's Minho, stirring on the other side of the room. Newt is quick to his feet, already striding over to their friend's side before Thomas can even react. He watches in dumbfounded silence as Newt crouches next to Minho and touches a gentle hand to his shoulder. He's acting completely normal, like Thomas hadn't just kissed him minutes ago.
Thomas catches snippets of their conversation. Newt asks if Minho is okay. Minho replies sarcastically. Their fingers brush as the blond pushes a canteen into the older boy's hands, and the rest fizzles out into buzzing silence.
He thunks his head back against the concrete wall, staring up at the holes in the ceiling. Teresa. Newt. Their faces flicker in his mind like pictures, the differences between them. Burning blue and golden brown. The fine line between gentle and rough. Two pieces, one puzzle.
Is it possible to feel this strongly for two different people at the same time? Is something wrong with him? His heart feels like it's going to burst.
Thomas wants to scream. Instead, he swallows it down like bile, forces himself to his feet, and prepares to face whatever the new day will bring.