"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine." — Song of Solomon 1:2
Newt x Fem!Reader Series 𑣲 Chapter 20 𑣲 WC: 2,965 A/N: I hate this chapter with all my heart. Let's just pretend it doesn't exist and move on.
"Aris said they bring in a new batch every night."
"Who the hell is Aris?" Minho mutters, and Thomas lifts his chin slightly, pointing across the cafeteria. You follow his gesture. Slowly. Yet, even that feels like too much effort.
There's a kid sitting alone in the corner, hunched over a tray he hasn't touched. His grey hood is pulled low over dark hair, and his eyes flick around the room like he expects to be mugged.
You look away.
You don't really give a shit about who Aris is.
You don't give a shit about much of anything, lately.
You haven't been here long, but this place feels like it's swallowed years of your life. You eat, barely. You sleep. You endure medical testing. You sit in a room full of strangers and pretend you're fine.
That's it.
You could stay here forever. Floating. Suspended in some strange limbo where nothing matters. Nothing can hurt worse than it already does. Is that a blessing, or a curse?
Outside this facility, the world is waiting. A cruel, unforgiving world where Chuck doesn't exist anymore. You're not ready for it. You can't just 'keep living' like everyone else seems to be content with.
They put you in a separate bunk from the others: A dorm full of girls you don't know, and don't care to. They're strangers who whisper to each other at night while you lie awake, staring at the ceiling until it swallows you whole.
You've never felt more alone, and that's saying something, because the Maze was supposed to be the worst thing that's ever happened to you, but even the Glade wasn't this lonely.
Not with Chuck there.
"Until we know anything for certain," Newt says in a hushed voice, leaning over the table. "We should just keep our heads down and try not to draw attention to ourselves."
In that moment, Thomas slams his palm so hard against the metal table, trays rattle. He's on his feet in an instant, eyes already locked on you.
He stares with the same reckless certainty he always does, like the space beside him has your name on it. Like you're guaranteed to follow, as you always have.
You always have.
You've been present for every terrible plan. Every impossible sprint towards danger and death. You are the inventor of such thoughtless action.
You can still remember how that spark felt sometimes, and the adrenaline that once constantly rushed through your veins, but now, your body belongs to someone else.
You stare back at him, guilt pressing sharp in your stomach, because he's waiting for you to stand too. To stand with him. He's waiting for you, and all you can think about is how tired you are.
Everywhere you go, you turn into a weight that drags behind everyone else like a chain tied to their ankles. You feel like a curse. So, instead of moving, you lower your head onto the table.
The metal is cool against your forehead. You hear Thomas exhale long through his nose. It's not an angry sound, and somehow, that makes it worse. His footsteps fade into the noise of the cafeteria, and you close your eyes.
You don't want to watch him have the strength you've lost.
"What's that dumb Shank doing?" Frypan murmurs beside you.
"Dunno," Newt answers. "But he looks bloody determined." Something taps the top of your head. Twice. You crack your eyes open and rise enough to see Newt's index finger retreating. "You're not going with him."
It's not a question, but an observation.
"Good to know your eyes still work." You whisper.
"She speaks!" Minho exclaims from the other side of the table. "Some words would've been nice a couple night ago, instead of the violent assault I got."
You glare at Minho.
In all fairness, you did smack an entire tray out of his hands and onto the floor hard enough to send soup splattering across his clothes. Minho's been dramatic about it ever since.
"Leave her be." Newt sighs tiredly.
"I am now." Minho shoots back. "Not exactly eager for more second-degree burns." Guilt would've followed a comment like that. Fortunately, you don't have to sit with the words long, because raised voices cut across the cafeteria.
"Woah! Hang on. You weren't called."
"Just gonna be a second—"
"This is a restricted area, kid."
Your eyes drift towards the noise. Thomas stands near one of the guarded doors, arguing with a guard who looks to be built like a concrete wall.
His shoulders are tense beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, hands moving sharply while he talks, too restless to stand still for even a second.
He's insane.
Maybe this is what it looked like when you did this:
Running ahead without thinking. Dragging everyone else after you whether they wanted to follow or not. Making people watch with dread heavy in their stomachs.
Crazy.
That's what they called you.
You don't feel crazy anymore. You feel nothing. Empty. Like you could fold inward and disappear completely. The world wouldn't even flinch at the empty space.
You don't have the energy for this. For Thomas' reckless heroics. For another fight. For anything. You're a worthless, hollow shell of the girl you were.
"I just wanna see my friend." Thomas insists sharply. "Let me through."
"Get your ass back in the chair." The guard jabs his finger hard into Thomas' chest. Thomas rocks back a step, hands lifting in a surrendering motion.
"Oh, thank God." Minho groans beside you, eyes trailing Thomas as he takes a couple convincing steps back. "I thought we were about to watch him get tased."
Thomas glances back toward the table.
Towards all of you,
And your stomach drops instantly.
You know that look. You see the microscopic shift in his stance. The weight settles in the balls of his feet like a runner waiting for the gunshot.
"We still might." You mutter, dragging yourself from the chair.
Your body protests.
Your bones feel filled with wet sand. Every movement is heavy and slow. Too slow. You should've gone with him earlier. Maybe you could've stopped whatever he's about to do.
Thomas lunges.
The guard swears loudly as Thomas slams into him, both of them crashing sideways into the doorway. Chairs screech against the floor as the others surge to their feet.
"Thomas!" Newt snaps.
You're slower to move across the cafeteria than the others. It's pathetic what you've become. You once prided yourself on the fact you could outrun the Glade.
Now, you're left behind.
You reach them just as Newt hooks both arms around Thomas' chest, yanking him backward before he can swing again. Thomas thrashes against the hold hard enough for Minho to join the restraint.
You catch his arm before he can wrench free. Thomas stumbles slightly from the added force, turning toward you with wild, uneven breathing. His eyes flash over your face, looking both startled and relieved that you followed at all.
"What's happening here?" Janson barrels through the crowd, irritation flashing before it smooths into something practiced. "Thomas!" He says, like they're old friends. "I thought we could trust each other. You know we're all on the same team here."
"Are we?"
The question hangs there, and for split second, nobody moves. Janson's smile falters. A twitch at the corner of his mouth most people wouldn't catch.
"...Get them to their bunks." Janson says. No raised voice. No anger. Just an eerie coolness that floods you with unease. The guards move. You don't resist when rough hands close around your bicep.
The hallway is a bustle of motion.
Shoes squeak against the polished floor. Someone protests. Someone else swears. A guard shoves between your shoulder blades, steering your direction.
"The hell was that, Tommy?" Newt's voice echoes harshly down the corridor. "We finally end up somewhere halfway decent, and you're eager to whittle it down to rubbish?"
Thomas doesn't respond.
Or maybe he does.
The guards are shoving you in a different direction, and whatever Thomas mutters gets swallowed by the noise of the hallway before it can reach you.
The group splits apart.
You're alone again.
Well, mostly alone. The guard beside you falters in step. Your pace is significantly slower than his, and he struggles to find footing that matches yours.
"Could you walk any slower?" He exhales through his nose. Apparently, you can, because he's force to once again shorten his stride when you lag behind with legs moving through invisible mud. "Pick up the pace."
You try.
By the time the guard drops you off at your dormitory, he looks more frustrated than anything. The door shuts behind you with a harsh metalic clink.
He's glad to be rid of you.
Isn't everyone?
The room is empty. No whispering strangers to pretend you're not there. No lingering stares from girls who survived different horrors. Just rows of bunks and buzzing overhead lights. You drift toward your bed and sit on the edge of it.
The girl in the bunk beside yours had been whispering about you the other night. Nothing inherently cruel, but her curiosity felt so. You're the only one from a different maze, after all.
If only Teresa were here. You don't even know where she is. You should, shouldn't you? She's another girl from your Maze. They should've placed you together.
Instead, you're here. Alone in a room that belongs to people you barely speak to. Just another place where you don't fit in. There's a surplus of places like that, apparently.
A metallic creak cuts through the air.
Your eyes shift downward slowly. The vent near the floor rattles once before the grate pops loose. You stare at it without reacting, thoughts lagging sluggishly behind the sound.
Maybe it's a rat.
A really big rat.
Maybe it'll crawl out and chew you to pieces.
Honestly, that sounds exhausting for the both of you. You're significantly bigger than a rat. Even a big one. How many bites would it take for a rat to eat you?
Something moves inside the vent. A hand pushes through first. So, not a rat. Then, a grey hood and pale skin. You blink slowly. That's Thomas' little friend.
What was his name again?
"Come on." He whispers urgently, and you stare back at him.
"...What?"
"Thomas told me to come get you."
You frown.
"...Get me?"
"Yes. Get you." He shifts impatiently. "I don't have time to explain. He's waiting." He holds a hand towards you. You look at it. Then at him. The back at the hand.
Of course, Thomas is waiting.
A long breath leaves your lungs. You don't ask questions. You don't argue. You don't have the energy to really think about it. Besides, life can't exactly get worse from here.
You push yourself up, a flicker of pain shocking your knee as your leg straightens. You steady yourself by taking advantage of the vent-boy's hand.
Aris.
Right.
That's his name.
The metal vent is freezing under your palms as you pull yourself inside. The space is immediately too tight, walls pressing around your shoulders while your injured knee drags awkwardly behind you.
You keep crawling anyway. What would complaining accomplish? Aris moves quickly ahead of you, barely checking to make sure you're still following.
It's irritating, the way none of them will leave you alone. Especially Thomas. He doesn't let you quietly disappear into yourself. He still thinks there's something left in you. Something worth being hopeful about.
Chuck thought that too.
Look where that got him.
Aris finally stops, pushing another grate open with a quiet scrape. Light spills through the vent, and you squint, crawling out after him, emerging onto solid ground.
Oh.
This is the boys' dorm.
"Hey Thomas." Aris says quickly. "You got it?" Thomas turns to face you and Aris, holding up a white keycard between his fingers. He must've swiped it from the guard earlier.
"What the—"
"Who is this kid?"
Voices overlap and confusion emerges as the others try to make sense of whatever insane plan Thomas has concocted. Aris shrinks slightly under the attention, hood pulling lower over his head.
"Alright, look," Thomas steps as a shield between Aris and the others. "Maybe you guys are right. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I gotta find out for sure. Just cover for me." Before anyone can argue, he's already motioning at the open vent, ushering both you and Aris toward it. "We'll be back as soon as we can."
You blink, then point vaguely at yourself.
"...Me too?"
"Uh," Thomas looks at you as though the answer is obvious. "Yeah, you too. Come on." He motions again more urgently toward the vent. "Move."
"I don't even know what you're doing."
"You'll figure out what we're doing on the way. Let's go. Let's go."
"I don't wanna figure it out on the way."
"You'll be fine."
"Thomas, I don't want to."
"Yes, you do."
Huh?
"Uhh, No? I really don't."
"Why?"
"Because I'm tired." Your voice cracks slightly. "I don't feel like crawling through weird vents or— Or stealing things from guards or— Anything." You fold your arms across your chest. "I don't even wanna be here."
Thomas goes still in a way that you rarely ever see from him. The whole room is still, every eye on Thomas, waiting to see if he's willing to take 'no' for an answer.
He doesn't.
"Yes, you do."
What?
"What?" Your eyebrows knit together, frustration sparking in your ribs. "You can't just say that. You can't just say stuff and make it true. These are my—"
"Yeah, I can."
Did this fuckass just interrupt you?
"You literally cannot." You shout, irritation festering into a flame that consumes your lungs. "For Shuck's sake, do you just like to hear the sound of your own voice? You're the most ignorant, arrogant—"
"There!" Thomas cuts you off, exclaiming as if you've just proven his point. "If you've got the energy to yell at me, you've got the energy to come with me."
"What?" You stare at him in utter disbelief, feeling as though you've just been dropped into an awful sitcom. "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
"You've got a bunch of energy now, don't you? Let's use it." He speaks, and you scoff. He's deliberately scraping at your nerves until you give reaction.
You hate that it's working.
Your fury burns. You hate how he pushes. You hate that he won't accept your exhaustion. You hate how he still looks at you with the certainty and faith Chuck used to give you.
Chuck.
Chuck, who would grin at you through scraped knees and terror. He believed in you with a vigor you never deserved. He thought you could save everyone.
You can't.
You don't want to go through that vent. You hardly want to go anywhere. You want to stay in a foreign room forever. Alone. Safe from having to care about anyone too much ever again.
Stupid Thomas won't let you wither.
Stupid Thomas.
Your eyes flick to the others, waiting to see the irritation you keep telling yourself they feel for you. Waiting for a look that will confirm that Thomas is the idiot for seeing something more.
You don't find it.
Frypan and Minho look more curious than anything. Winston— Well, you sort of forgot he was even here, but he doesn't look bothered either. Newt looks worried. Not irritated or disappointed, but worried.
They aren't looking at you the way you keep envisioning they do. They look at you the same way they look at Thomas now: They're waiting for you to move.
They followed you here, didn't they? Chuck isn't the only life which rested on your shoulders. These people trusted you enough to leave their home behind.
They still do.
You glance back to Thomas and his waiting expression. Even after the days you've spent barely talking, ignoring him and giving up on yourself, he hasn't.
Idiot.
You owe something this to this idiot at the very least.
Get over yourself.
Quit being selfish.
Just go.
"Okay." An empty sound escapes your lips, the remnants of reaction to the absurdity of Thomas' ragebait method.
"I still think this is a bloody awful idea." Newt says, and Thomas groans, already ushering you toward the vent and ignoring Newt. "S'Always the two of you, 'innit?"
Seriously?
That passive aggressive comment is a perfect testament as to why you and Newt have never gotten along.
"They're hiding something." Thomas argues. "We don't have time to argue about this. If you're right, you're right. If you're wrong, you're welcome."
"You're going to get us all killed someday."
"But not today." Thomas nods confidently before crouching near the entrance of the vent. He speaks your name, waving a hand for you to join him.
Before you commit, you glance to Newt. He's already watching you. His gaze moves over you slowly, lingering on details that make the heat crawl unpleasantly under your skin.
He scans your face, most certainly absorbing the exhaustion on it. His eyes move lower still, to your waist, your hands, and finally your knee, where your weigh shifts unevenly to avoid the pain.
"You don't have to go." Newt says quietly, void of pressure and dripping in concern. Your eyes flicker to the vent again, where Thomas is waiting for you.
You shake your head, taking a step back from Newt and in the direction of the vent. He watches you for another long moment before giving a small nod.
A nod.
Maybe he's not so bad.
You lower yourself carefully into the vent, metal biting cold against your palms once more. Yet, the warmth of Newt's understanding keeps the journey bearable.