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Thomas arrives in the Glade alone.
That’s how he feels, his entire first day there. Alone. He’s surrounded by boys—shanks, they call each other—each one with a job, a duty, a responsibility. Thomas has none of those. He has a blank memory, and he has questions, and no one can answer them. They try for awhile, as best as anyone can, hints of frustration only temporarily crossing their features when his questions get really elaborate. Some, like Newt, try harder than most - he explains things, follows along with Alby and gives out tips whenever they come in handy. He introduces Thomas to the Runners—to Minho—when they come back from the first day’s run. They’re nice enough, Thomas figures, even though they eye him up and down as if they’re sizing up his chances of survival. As if they’re silently taking bets on how long he’ll last.
As Newt, Alby, and Minho leave him digging latrines on his first afternoon, with Chuck chattering away next to him, Thomas wonders what it would take to belong here—what it would take to stop feeling like such an outsider. How it would feel to have the slightest clue about what’s going on. What it would take to have the slightest clue, period; about who he is and about where he came from, about what happened before he woke up in that damn Box in the first place.
He wonders if the others have started to remember. If they’ll ever let him be one of them.
Thomas doesn’t remember much, but he thinks he’s never liked being alone.
***
On Thomas’s second night in the Glade, he finds comfort in Newt.
The longer Thomas goes without remembering anything, the more it gnaws away at the pit of his stomach. It's the feeling of having forgotten something important, and it's unending. It's going to drive him crazy, he's pretty sure. He’s lost, and he’s alone, and everything feels awful.
But that awful feeling changes, a little bit, thanks to Newt.
“Chin up, Greenie,” Newt calls from behind him that evening. “The blisters’ll be gone in a few days.”
Thomas looks up from his position at the firepit, poorly-split logs scattered around his feet. “How do you guys do it?”
Newt shrugs. “You toughen up the longer you’re here. You’ll be all right.”
“Are you?”
Newt pauses and gives Thomas a long, steady look. Thomas wants to ask him all sorts of things - wants to know if he’ll get used to the pit of anxiety in his stomach and the scattered, desolate space he feels in his mind every time he tries to think of anything beyond the Box. But he stays quiet and keeps his eyes on Newt.
Finally, Newt reaches out and takes the axe out of Thomas’s hand. He swings it up over his shoulder and lets it slam easily down on a block of wood. It splits evenly in two with a dull thud.
“You’ll be all right,” Newt repeats. Their hands brush slightly as Newt gives the axe back, and Thomas feels something gentle in his touch.
He feels that gentleness again as he rests against Newt’s chest that night, lying in the grass long after everyone has hunkered down to get some sleep. Newt’s thin fingers trace patterns on Thomas’s lower back, tucked just underneath the hem of his shirt. When Thomas’s lips seek out Newt’s tentatively, Newt holds him a little closer. It's more comfortable than anything Thomas can imagine.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” Newt whispers between kisses, and Thomas cups the back of his neck, kissing him a little deeper. I’m not afraid. Not of you.
“What’s out there?” Thomas asks, shifting in Newt’s arms. Newt’s grip tightens around Thomas's waist and his body curves around Thomas’s as best he can, the height difference making the whole thing a little awkward. A little awkward, but not uncomfortable at all.
“Other than slimy pincushions of death?” The breath on the back of Thomas’s neck is warm, and he can feel Newt’s chuckle right against his skin. It makes Thomas smile - his first since waking up in the Box two days ago. “I don’t know. Hope, maybe.”
“You think the Runners still have hope? After two years?”
Newt’s lips ghost against the place where neck meets shoulder. “Bloody Christ, I hope so.”
“Do you?”
There’s a pause, and Newt slides one ankle gently between both of Thomas’s. “Now I do.”
When Thomas drifts off to sleep, those three words echo softly in his head.
***
On Thomas’s fourth night in the Glade, he finds solace in Minho.
Adrenaline buzz is a powerful thing, and the haze it brings lasts far longer than Thomas would have expected. He’s still buzzing after getting out of the Maze, after delivery Alby to the medics, after telling the story of the Griever death over and over and over to every other Glader. He’s still buzzing when he and Minho break away from the crowd and trek off to the Runner’s Hut to catch a moment of quiet.
“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” Minho is still panting as they collapse, bloodied and sweat-soaked, on the floor of the Runner’s Hut.
“I couldn’t leave Alby behind. You weren’t going to,” Thomas points out.
“I’m a Runner. I was responsible for the guy.” Minho shakes his head with a grin. “You’re just… nuts.”
Blood is pounding in Thomas’s ears, chest rising and falling as he leans against Minho’s shoulder, trying to come down from the high. “We know more about them now,” Thomas says. “We know that it’s possible to beat them.”
“We’re getting closer,” Minho says. He holds out his arms, goosebumps dotting every inch of his skin. His eyes lift, gaze settling on Thomas’s. There’s fire in them. “Can’t you feel it?”
Thomas’s lips are on his in a second. I can feel everything.
Instead of the shove, the yell, the protest Thomas was expecting, he feels a gasp against his lips. Then Minho is there, firm against him, fingers grappling at his clothes and pushing him back against the wall of the hut. Thomas’s head spins as he feels hands on his belt. His lips chase Minho’s own as Minho pulls back just enough to get Thomas's pants down past his hips. Thomas's skin flushes red when Minho wraps a hand around him, gasping in turn as he feels Minho hard against his thigh.
He doesn’t think. He doesn’t wonder what this is, or why it’s happening, or why there are dark eyes focused on him instead of blue like two nights before. He doesn’t let himself get up into his own head about it - doesn’t want to do anything but run on pure adrenaline, on the high of being alive. When he reaches out to touch Minho back, he feels fire in his veins.
Sparks pop in front of Thomas’s eyes as he jerks Minho quickly, every stroke matching one of Minho’s own.
“Fuck,” Thomas says, panting softly, and Minho’s lips come crashing down on his own again.
Things are frantic and heated, foreheads pressed together as their hands move over one another in unison. Little groans and gasps are caught on each other’s lips, teeth and tongues setting the whole room on fire as they hold each other close. Thomas is dizzy with it, every nerve in his body aching to get closer, closer, to chase this feeling until the bitter end. And when the fog clears and they’re slumped together, messy and flushed, he feels Minho’s lips graze his own again.
“I wouldn’t be alive right now if you weren’t such a crazy bastard,” he whispers, and Thomas feels his heart thud a little.
“I didn’t do what anyone else wouldn’t have done,” Thomas murmurs.
Minho shakes his head. “You did exactly what no one else would have done. You did so much more.”
Thomas spends the night there, arms wrapped around Minho tightly. If he keeps holding onto him, maybe he’ll be able to convince himself that they both really are going to make it out okay. That everyone, somehow, is going to be okay.
***
On Thomas’s first night outside the Glade, he finds relief in them both.
He can’t shake the sight of the dead bodies lying on the floor of the facility. The bloodstains, the bitter smell. His friends on the ground, the light leaving their eyes. It feels like it’s all burnt into him, and it doesn’t matter that he’s alive and safe and far away from the Glade - he still feels the air, thick and heavy, pressing on his chest. Suffocating him.
He doesn’t even realize he’s started shaking until Newt lays a hand on his arm.
“You okay?” he whispers. The room they’ve been given to sleep in for the night is dark, but Thomas can still see the glimmer of Newt’s eyes in the moonlight that filters in through the one window. He shifts closer, pulling Thomas in, letting his head rest in the crook of his arm. The kindness of the gesture makes Thomas's chest feel warm.
When Thomas tries to speak, his throat is dry. “She said WICKED is good.” He can barely croak out his words. “How can it be good? After what they did to us?”
“We’re out now, though,” Newt says. Everyone around them is asleep, bone-tired from the day’s events, and his voice stays low to let them rest. “We’re safe.”
“Not all of us,” Thomas says. He doesn’t even recognize his voice as his own anymore - too hollow and emotionless to be coming from anyone still with a soul. “We lost people. Chuck died because of me. I can’t -”
A pair of strong, solid arms wrap around him, and Thomas bites back a sudden sob as he leans against the warm chest at his back. He knows it’s Minho before he even speaks.
“Chuck was a stubborn little guy, you know that. He wouldn’t have made it if you’d died instead of him.” Minho’s lips ghost his ear, and Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force Chuck’s face out of his mind. The room is silent, filled with steady breathing all around them. Thomas fights to get himself under control, to keep himself together and not lose his mind. And Newt and Minho wait for him, bodies against his, patient and steady.
“Where the hell do we go from here?” he asks, finally.
“I don’t know,” Newt says with a shrug. “But we’ll find out in the morning, won’t we?”
“We’re going to stick together, Thomas,” Minho adds. “We couldn’t have made it out of that maze without you. We won’t be moving forward without you, either.”
“Together,” he repeats softly, the word a little slurred. He can feel the tiredness hitting him now, an ache seeping into all his muscles. Thomas has no idea what’s going to happen when the sun rises, when everyone wakes and decisions need to be made. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to put one foot after another ever again. But he will - he has to. For Newt and Minho - for Alby and Teresa and Frypan and, hell, even Gally.
For Chuck. At the very least, he has to move forward for Chuck.
And knowing he has Newt and Minho next to him might make it all just a bit more bearable.
When Newt’s lips brush against his own, gently, Thomas kisses him back gratefully and doesn’t question it. Doesn’t worry about all the others there in the room with them, so close they could be seen if any of them opened their eyes. Doesn’t worry about Minho seeing, right behind them. Because when Newt’s lips fall away, all Thomas has to do is turn his head a fraction of an inch and Minho’s are right there. His kiss is a little more firm, infused with more confidence where Newt’s had tenderness, and Thomas doesn’t question it at all. For all the danger in their lives, nothing’s ever felt as good as this little bit of safety.
“We’ve got you,” Newt whispers, and Thomas believes him.
Thomas arrives in the Glade alone… and, to his relief, he leaves it anything but.
end.