Yeah okay, I hate how I do this to myself. But yeahhhh new fandom, new pair! I'm exploring with Newmas, (Newtmas?) mostly because I fell in love with Newt and he pained me greatly. SPOILERS FOR THE DEATH CURE BTW. IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED THE SERIES READ WITH CAUTION!

This story has a lot of my tears, frustration, and embarrassment (I'm so not used to writing intimate scenes,) sprayed on it. Hope you enjoy!

(Maybe one day I'll make myself finish my other stories.)

~beanie hats

Thomas realizes that he's a bit of a stubborn, curious, annoying person. But he knows that he has to be a Runner. He can feel it.

"You've got to stop talking about this Runner stuff, Tommy," Newt says, frowning. The two boys were currently sitting near each other at the bonfire, shoulders touching. Thomas stares at the way the fire light makes his eyes and hair glow bronze.

"But-"

"Shuck it," Newt cuts in. "Just let it go. Please."

And he does, surprisingly.

He quietly slips out of bed and into the bathroom. He splashes his face with water and stares at himself in the mirror, at the bags that plague his eyes. Teresa was gone. Tomorrow, they were going to start Phase Two, whatever that was. He turns his body, craning his head to see if he can see the words printed on his neck.

To be killed by Group B.

He feels a bit hollow. The only thing inside him right now is a need for revenge.

"Shouldn't you be in bloody bed right now?"

Thomas knows who it is immediately. He's memorized the sound of his voice, has come to rely on the person speaking to him greatly. "Shouldn't you?" he replies softly, turning his head to the figure who stood in the doorway.

Newt walks over to him and gently places his hand on his shoulder. They stare into the mirror, at their matching weary eyes. Newt is a bit taller than him, Thomas realizes, but it's such a small difference it's barely noticeable.

"Tommy, let's go to buggin' sleep," Newt mutters, "please."

And suddenly he feels himself filling up, a warm feeling buzzing through his bones. He doesn't feel hollow anymore. Thomas raises his hand and gently places it over the hand Newt has on his shoulder. He lets it fall almost immediately. "Alright," he says, and the pair walk into the room in silence.

He isn't exactly sure how this started, but he's starting to like where it's going. Newt's lips feel dry and cracked, but he's pretty sure his feel the same way. He doesn't want to question anything anymore, because this feels good, and he hasn't felt good in a long time. His hands are shaking and Newt's trembling beneath him. There's sand everywhere, in Newt's hair, in his own, in their clothes, but neither care.

They break away, gasping. Thomas's blood burns at the way Newt's cheeks are flushed, at the way his eyes stay closed. He places wet kisses along the blonde's neck, at the spot right below his ear. His hands slide underneath his shirt.

"Thomas," Newt breathes, tugging at the other boy's shirt, "Tommy. Please."

A small chuckle escapes Thomas as he complies. "Sure, darling," he teases, "anything for you."

"Shuck it," Newt retorts, but he's gasping.

"Tommy, slim yourself."

At first, Thomas doesn't really understand, he doesn't get how Newt could stay so calm, doesn't get how he could force a smile on his face. Newt's name still echoes through his head, the first shucking name on the damn 'not immune' list. But it can't be him. It can't be Newt the one he's held and kissed. The one he can't lose. He can't lose anyone else, he can't-

But there it is again, in Newt's eyes. Please.

So he says, "If you're cool with slowly going crazy and wanting to eat small children, then I guess we won't cry for you." He smiles and it stings.

He feels hollow again.

Thomas glares at the envelope, at the blankness. He finds it overwhelming. Blank on the outside but on the inside, there could be anything. He slides it into his pocket cautiously.

"Now look me in the eyes."

He thinks back to the days in the Glade, at the bonfire, the way Newt's eyes glowed bronze with a good enough amount of happiness and light. (He isn't naive enough to believe that Newt, or anyone, really, was extremely happy in that place.) Now though, his eyes are dark and tired. Pained.

"You swear to me that you won't read what's inside that bloody envelope until the time is right."

And he swears, staring at the boy's trembling frame that screamed please.

They're on the Berg, and they hold each other tight.

The only thing they can do is keep the other as close as possible, until they can't anymore.

"Get out of here!" Newt yells, arms trembling as he aims his gun.

Please.

"Do it!" Newt shouts.

"I can't!" Thomas says, voice trembling. He glances at the way Newt's body shakes, at how he holds the pistol to his forehead, at his wild eyes. He realizes now that he was wrong. Newt was never really close to happy at all, was he?

"I hated that place, Tommy. I hated every second of every day."

And he has a selfish thought. What about him? Did Thomas make him happy? He thinks of Newt's smile on that one night in the Scorch. He thinks of Newt's playful little kisses, of his reassuring touches.

"Kill me!" Newt yells, and Thomas feels tears stream down his cheeks. When Newt's eyes soften, he knows he's done for.

"Please, Tommy. Please."

He pulls the trigger.

"Sure, darling," he teases, "anything for you."