@xuoria wanted ‘so much angst it hurts’ so blame them again!!! x, you asked for this.
thomas sees blonde everywhere. in sonya, in the sand beneath his feet, in the pale yellow of the sunset in winter. he sees it in his dreams, newt’s hair fanned out on the pillow next to him, threaded between his fingers.
he sees red, too. in brenda’s favourite shirt, in the apples growing in the orchard (he can’t go near the gardens, he just can’t), in the blood of the sunset. he sees it seeping through newt’s shirt and dripping onto the floor, sticky and hot.
he doesn’t want to forget. he doesn’t - he wakes up sobbing every night with anguish and gratitude. because if he remembers that then he remembers the little half smile on newt’s familiar mouth before he collapsed in his arms, and that…he would take every ounce of torture to get another glimpse of newt’s happiness.
it has been five years. brenda and frypan have a little one on the way. sonya and harriet are married. minho and gally are…something.
and yet, thomas is the one most committed.
a girl came up to him, once, with dark hair and green eyes. she was all coy, gentle scheming touches, until thomas tells her no.
“i’m in love,” he tells her honestly. minho closes his eyes in pain from across the fire. “i’m waiting, until i can see him again.”
she scoffs. newt is as famous as thomas here; the wicked children they’d saved ask thomas and minho for stories of the boy with the strange accent, and minho seems determined to preserve newt’s fearlessness. she knows who the ‘him’ in question is. “it’s been years, and he didn’t look anything special-“
thomas is shoving her off, red hot fury pulsing through him. “don’t you dare,” he snarls. he relishes in feeling something other than grief. “he was everything - he is everything. i love him. he loved me, and i’ll never love again as long as i can - “ he shakes his head, hand finding the familiar metal under his shirt, and runs off. he’s always been good at running.
thomas slams into his tent, shaking. he doesn’t know what to do. his memories of newt are slipping, and even now he knows that newt was the most beautiful thing he will ever see, an odd juxtaposition of tenses. because newt is here and gone, present and distant. thomas wants him nearer.
there is a knock on the tree by his tent. a woman stands there - an old wckd defect, an ex scientist. she holds a faded paper copy of records. “i am sorry,” she whispers. “i kept them because i…wasn’t sure if by giving them i would do more harm than good.” she passes it over, and thomas opens it silently.
it’s records. hundreds of them, labelled ‘A2 and A5.’ thomas’ heart jumps. there are photos.
he sees newt. he doesn’t register that he’s alone again; he sinks to the floor and cradles the worn black and white security images of them as children as if they’re his last sip of water in the scorch again.
there are photos of them in the maze, the labs, in the last city. surveillance of them, grainy and terrible in quality, but thomas can make out the thin curve of newt’s mouth, the lightness of his frame, the way his body curves next to him.
how can he move on when just a photo takes his breath away?
he clings onto the pieces of newt’s memory and sobs; he’s half agony half relief, and he reaches the last page of the record and -
it’s them kissing in the last city. maybe two hours before newt died. thomas is supporting him, protecting him, but they’ve paused. newt’s fingers are soft and gentle on thomas’ jaw; thomas’ hands are protective on his waist. it was their last kiss.
he presses his mouth to the paper, and closes his eyes.
that night, he dreams of the kiss instead of newt’s body collapsing in front of him.
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