Chapter Eighteen
At first Newt thought he was still asleep. He could hear voices, far away and blurred as though the words were just a stream of sound. He listened for a minute or two, his head lightening as he began to fill his body with his consciousness. It wasn't until he heard the word Glader in a rough, huffy voice that he realised he was awake.
As he opened his eyes to the pre-sunrise light and blinked the world into focus he heard a commanding female voice answer. He listened hard as he tried to orient himself, but he could only catch every other word. He shifted gently to work his arm free, pressing his hand over Thomas's mouth as he began to stir.
Thomas was awake instantly, so quickly that it startled Newt. His frowning eyes met Newt's, a hazy confusion melting into awareness as the voices moved closer. Thomas turned his head so quickly he might have tumbled from the tree if it wasn't for the rope securing him to the branch. Through the canopy of leaves between them the Gladers caught sight of Minho, already out of his sleeping bag and perched in a crouch with one hand on the trunk.
He looked as though he'd been awake for ages, his pack on his back and a knife in his free hand. He must have caught their movements because he looked over, his face set in that unnerving blank expression. He tipped his head towards the direction of the voices, a question in his eyes. Thomas nodded, setting to work untangling his rope as quickly as he dared, careful not to jostle the blonde at his side.
"What're you doing?" Newt hissed as quietly as he could.
A cold fear appeared within him as he watched Thomas slip his rucksack over his shoulders, reaching gingerly for his quiver. Thomas didn't look at him, securing his quiver before reaching for his bow.
"Tommy?"
Thomas shook his head at Newt's fierce whisper, but he didn't say anything. An awful foreboding feeling settled on his skin like sand. Thomas was avoiding his eyes. He was planning something and Newt was afraid he might know what it was. He watched in fear as Thomas and Minho shared a long look, both of them nodding once, sharply. And then Minho swung his legs over his branch and dropped to the one below, steadying himself easily. Newt hadn't thought to ask which district their new friend was from, but he hadn't thought it'd be one where tree-climbing was a common skill.
His appreciation of Minho's climbing skills was cut short, however, when Thomas got himself into a crouch, tipping his head over the side to judge the best way to climb down. Newt reached out fearfully, his fingers finding Thomas's sleeve.
"What's going on?"
Nothing.
Thomas didn't even turn.
The fear swelled, pushing against his lungs and forcing the air from him.
"Tommy, what's happenin'?"
He tried to keep his voice as silent as possible, knowing approaching tributes would hear him as easily as they could hear them. But he couldn't help it. Even though he knew this was it, their time in the Arena was truly beginning, the thought of climbing down from the safety his tree provided and into the darkness made him feel ill. The thought of Thomas going without him was worse. He wriggled, fumbling for the zip to the sleeping bag, cursing his shaking fingers. Panic was bubbling in his stomach and making it hard to focus.
Thomas's hand closed over his, stilling his fingers as they were dragging the zip open, letting in the cold. Don't go, he wanted to say, don't leave me here alone. What his mouth hissed was
"It's bloody freezing!"
He looked up. Thomas was squeezing his hand, his eyes worried and fixed on Newt's face. He didn't say anything, he just looked at him for precisely three heartbeats and Newt could feel Thomas's thoughts just as surely as he could read them in his eyes. He shook his head. Thomas closed his eyes and swallowed hard before he looked at him again. Newt could feel his eyes pricking with the onset of tears.
"No." he whispered, knowing it wouldn't sway his friend.
Thomas smiled apologetically, glancing down towards the ground anxiously. Newt knew Thomas had to go now if he wanted the chance of getting to the forest floor before the voices became figures. He twisted his hand clumsily, squeezing Thomas's fingers back hard. Thomas looked at him one last time, his eyes deep and worried and yet somehow calm. Thomas had decided, and that gave him something to hold on to, no matter how panicky it made Newt.
"You better come back." he hissed out mournfully, his voice wavering. "I'll buggin' kill ya if you- if you don't."
He couldn't bear to say the word he was going to.
Thomas gave him his soft smirk, the one that Newt loved so badly. Before Newt knew what was happening Thomas had leaned forwards and pressed a hard kiss to Newt's temple before letting go of his hand and sweeping his legs over the side to the next branch, all in one movement. Newt leaned over the bough Thomas had vacated, his nails digging into the sharp bark as he watched the only real friend he'd ever had slipping from branch to branch like he had a hundred times before. His heart was clenched and compressed in his ribcage as though it were being crushed into a vacuum this time, though. And he felt like he was never going to see him again, even as he forbid himself to ever think it.
Why were they doing this? Why weren't they just staying in the treetops and avoiding the other tributes altogether? Why go down to meet them and risk so much when the faint light probably wouldn't be enough to betray their perches anyway? Newt would drive himself mad with worry, he just knew he would. Thomas was going to be going off and being as ridiculous as Newt had known he would, and he'd left Newt behind.
He had to busy himself, unwrapping his rope and twisted this way and that to get out of the thin sleeping bag, trying not to notice the cold. Thomas must have been freezing last night and yet he'd let Newt have the sleeping bag with its weird warm technology. He rolled it up carefully and then shoved it into his small pack, an insufficient release of his frustration. Damn that Thomas for leaving him here like he was useless. He could help, if they were going to fight he'd be willing to fight too.
Thomas and Minho were on the forest floor by the time he was packed up, crouching together by one of the thick trunks, their heads close together. Newt tried to breathe as he moved to a branch that gave him a better view of Thomas. The voices were pronounced now, he could hear words, as chillingly clear as though they were right there with them.
Shucking trees, messing with the sound.
Newt had to keep himself calm, focus incase he had to act quickly. The Hunger Games had officially begun, the Midnight point passed. In a sudden and fleeting rush of triumph, Newt found a small smile on his lips. They'd done it. They'd survived the night, practically all the way till morning.
Gladers had survived a night in the Arena, two of them, possibly all four.
Take that, Snow. he thought, bitterly.
His heart was pounding as he listened to the voices, his gut chilling when he heard what they were saying. He felt like he'd had a limb removed, the loss of his Tommy from his side jarring and unusually terrifying. He wasn't that far away. Newt could see him, had his gaze locked on him even though Thomas never looked up at him. He'd watched Thomas climb down a tree a hundred times before, more than that. It wasn't anything new.
Well.
Newt held his breath as he saw the first shadow move.
Death hadn't always been waiting at the bottom of the tree.
