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It had been way too easy to befriend Newt.
The British blond was the main thing that had prevented Thomas from becoming crazy when he had come up in the Box. He remembered the fear that had flooded his mind when he had realized he didn't have any memory left. He could recall the panic he had felt when he had seen all those figures looking down at him, those unknown and scary boys with a strange slang and an amazingly strict way of life.
Newt had been the only one to provide him with answers, to explain – sometimes not quite willingly – a few things to him. Newt had quickly become a real support for Thomas, someone he could easily talk to. They would find themselves a quiet place to sit somewhere in the Glade and would either talk – about the Glade, about Thomas, about Newt, about the other Gladers sometimes – or stay quiet. They wouldn't talk about the maze too much, Newt's face always darkening and tensing a little when Thomas talked about his running with Minho.
Thomas had soon been proved that Newt hated the maze but also that the blond hated the fact that Thomas was spending his days with Minho. Indeed, when the blond had pushed him hardly against the wall of the Homestead after Thomas had come back just in time from one of his runs, he had known he couldn't have any doubt left. He had let his instincts do the deed and had kissed Newt. Or Newt had kissed him. He couldn't quite remember.
It had been wonderful though and it had given Thomas the bravoury and the courage to find a way out of the Maze, out of their little prison. Newt had taken the lead with Minho because Alby had been stung and was unable to take any decision, and they had fought their way out of the Maze. They had lost so much – Alby, Chuck – that Thomas had thought he would never be able to stand up again.
Newt had obviously thought the same, but both boys knew they had to keep going. When they heard about the Flare, Thomas didn't even think about what was going to happen to him: he had turned his gaze to see Newt who was already looking at him.
But they had to keep going. Specially after they had been put into another “trials” as Ratman had said. From there, Thomas had supported Newt just as much as Newt had supported Thomas. They had been through the underground tunel, holding each others hand, too afraid to let go, to afraid that one of them could be the next victim. Too afraid they would have to go on on their own.
They had started to run across the scorched land that was waiting for them, Thomas always keeping an eye on Newt, making sure he was safe, that he could run. Newt, on the other side, had kept an eye on Thomas, making sure he was fine and determined to survive. He trusted Thomas to survive.
When the storm had broken, panic had flooded the Gladers. Minho had been burnt but Newt was safe. That night in the building, before everything had messed up, Thomas and Newt had slept in each others arms, trying to find a little comfort. They had shared a passionate kiss, pouring all their feelings and care into the touch, until they had gently try to fall asleep, Thomas gently running his fingers in Newt's hair.
They had been seperated then, trying to run away from Cranks right after that night. Thomas had never felt so lost and scared in his life – or at least what he could remember of it. Newt's absence was slowly killing him, terrible and unmerciless thoughts poisonning his brain. He had to find him.
In the end, it was Newt who had found Thomas and who had saved him from the Cranks.
“Don't ever do that to me again, Tommy.” The blond had said, relief evident in his voice.
Obviously, Thomas hadn't been able to keep his promise: a few minutes later, he had been shot in the shoulder. From his daze and before he had lost consciousness, he had heard Newt's voice, shaking because of the tears he was desperately trying to hold back.
Thomas had had no memory about the few days that had followed this event. Pain was almost all he could remember. Then, he had woken up in the scorch, with his friends, his shoulder patched up, as if he had never been injured in the first place.
Newt had kissed him in front of all the Gladers for the first time, gently running his hand up and down Thomas' neck. That night, when Newt and Thomas had cuddled to sleep, they had felt the urge to touch each other, to taste their love before something else happen. They had made love, enjoying each other's skin, becoming one single person, one mind, one soul, their heart beating as one.
Then, again, Thomas had disappeared, kidnapped by the girls of Group B, leaving Newt completely alone once more. Once more, both men fought their own way through the scorch, because they needed, they had to find each other. And finally they did, fighting once more side to side against Wicked's creatures, until they had finally escaped the scorch.
At that point, none of them had had the slightest hope that everything was done, that they would all be fine: they were all too damages, they had suffered too many losses and harships and they didn't feel confident because somewhere deep inside, they knew. They knew it was not over.
When Thomas had woken up, alone, on the white floor of a white room, unable to get out of it, he had been about to become mad for real this time. He needed to see Newt. He needed to make sure he was okay. Wicked had released him from his white prison days and days later. Thomas had been stumbling over his own feet, unable to know where he was, what was happening.
Then he had seen Newt. He had felt relieved at first, until the boy had welcomed him with the tightest hug Thomas had ever received. Newt's voice was harsh but low, like if it had been broken by the screams and his eyes seemed to be haunted.
“The following people are not immune: Newt,-” The buzzing in Thomas head had threatened to kill him. His heart wouldn't be able to handle that, Thomas knew it.
“Tommy, slim yourself.” Newt's harsh and broken voice had peirced his thoughts and Thomas had found himself looking at him in despair. “-and living hasn't exactly been so great anyway.” Thomas' heart had broken and he had tried to hold back his tears. Newt had seemed to realize it wasn't the best thing to say, but he hadn't made a move, clenching his fists and bitting on his lower lips instead.
Thomas had no idea when he had trully lost Newt. Had he been sane enough when he had handed him a piece of paper? Had he been himself as they had made their way out of Wicked? He couldn't think about it, didn't want to know if, at that moment, the Flare had already dammaged Newt more than he ever thought possible. But he held on, had to keep going.
He had tried to cuddle with Newt that night, in the Berg, tried to go to him, to make him talk, maybe release some of his pain, but the blond hadn't let him do so. Thomas hadn't known if it was Newt or the Flare talking. He didn't really want to know.
He had had to leave Newt alone in the Berg the next day, his heart breaking into a million pieces as the blond smiled slightly, sadness and anger fighting on his face. Thomas had gone back, unable to leave Newt like that and the blond had grabbed his shirt and kissed him. When they had pulled back, a single tear was running down Newt's face.
Thomas had met Newt again, two days later, in a worse state than before. The blond was so clearly loosing it but Thomas had tried to deny the evidence. Until Newt had pointed a Launcher at his chest: “Please, if you love me, get out. I'll shoot you if you don't. Please.” And Thomas had left. He had left Newt alone. Once more. Opening the note, he had read the few words Newt had left him and it had broken his heart. “Kill me, if you've ever been my friend, kill me.”
The last time he had seen Newt, Thomas had been determined not to let him down once more. But things had not gotten the way he would've hoped. And there, on the ground, with a half furious, half crazy Newt poiting Thomas' gun at his own head, Thomas had found himself broken: he couldn't deny it any longer. Newt was gone.
And, as the blond had been spilling out his venom, Thomas had started to cry. It had made Newt stop and what had followed after had only been the beginning of the worst part of his whole life.
“If you've ever loved me Tommy... Don't make me beg you, please.”
A single tear had fallen from Newt's eye as he had leaned over Thomas and kissed him. Not a real kiss, just a soft touch. “Please Tommy, please.” And, the ghost of their kiss still on their lips, Thomas and Newt had closed their eyes.
It had been way too hard to pull the trigger.