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They’ve run the entire day, with barely any water, no food and the sun shining down on them mercilessly. To say their little group is exhausted would be an understatement.
When night rolls around, everyone just slumps to the ground, in the middle of nowhere there is no tree, no abandoned building, anything to give them shelter. So the ground it is. It’s cold, coarse and the least comfortable place Newt has ever slept in - and he did in fact spent the night before outside in a bloody sand storm, half frozen half scared to death, hiding from those zombies under a piece of concrete, squeezed in between his friends. He’s not sure he actually slept, at most he dozed off a couple of times only to startle awake from either his friends trembling so badly or the cries and screeches from the creatures in the distance.
And somehow this here - it’s worse. The night before they had shelter, their little hideout still provided some kind of safety. But here, full out in the open, Newt feels open, naked, like on a silver platter for WICKED’s soldiers would they happen to fly their Bergs over them in their search for the escaped Gladers. Newt hates it, hates the endless vast plain of the desert around him, hates the cold, hates being hunted down, hates non knowing why even. He can’t believe Thomas doesn’t know more about it either. But the worst is that they’ve got no idea where they’re headed. Never before Newt had nothing to go towards: In the Glade they all had their responsibilities, the days were clearly structured and horrible as it had been being stuck there, the search for a way out of the Maze had given them hope while they lived their farm life as well as possible. They had direction. And that has been a big part of keeping him alive, especially after the day he doesn’t allow himself to think about too much. Hope can do a lot for your will to go on. Can be everything.
In Janson’s facility they’ve been given the prospect of their names getting called, while they were allowed to heal from the traumatic events happening as soon as Thomas turned up in the box.
They’ve lost Jack, they’ve lost Winston just within 24 hours. What’s coming next? He can’t bloody wait to find out. Life is shit. He misses his friends. He misses his hammock. He misses the easy mundanity of the Glade and the comfort of the facility, falling asleep to the even breathing of his friends around him, safe and warm.
He misses the time when his crush on Thomas was still so easy. It took him by total surprise, a welcome distraction from the horrors going on in the Maze. Another wave of hope, honestly.
Now he’s endlessly frustrated with the boy and also more infatuated with him than ever. How did he manage to fall for such an utter idiot. That boy’s impulsivity and curiosity will get them all killed. And still…Newt can’t stop being endlessly fascinated by Thomas and the need to be close to him, to follow him anywhere despite his clear lack of a plan, it’s so strong. Newt just can’t pull away. Fine.
That’s why he’s not budging up, not even a little, when Thomas rolls around in his sleep, bringing their bodies closer together. No, he’s not moving away. He wants Thomas in his personal space, near, right by his side. And if this means Thomas moving his arm across him, letting his fingers rest on Newt’s hip and leaning his head half against Newt’s shoulder, half against his chest, then Newt won’t complain. The boy’s soft breathing calms Newt’s anxious thoughts and he feels his heart slowing down to a more harmonious pace.
His fingers find the nape of Thomas’ neck and he caresses the soft hair there.
In its own way, it’s Thomas not owning a filter, neither for his reckless ideas nor his endless questions but absolutely owning a heart of gold and courage that gives Newt hope again.