Chapter Twenty-Six
Newt puffed out yet another breath, blowing air up at his fringe. It was, yet again, a wasted effort. He couldn't help the huff of frustration as he dropped the twig in his hand and scraped his nails across his forehead, pushing his sweat-damp hair to the side, to the back he didn't care. It was infuriating, whispering over his forehead and his eyelids, birthing an itch that was driving him crazy. Sweat was rolling in slow droplets down his back and even the moss was irritating him. The Arena hadn't been anywhere near as hot yesterday, the air was clammy and almost a physical feeling on their skin and it was irking everybody.
He dug his nails unnecessarily into the dirt as he grabbed his twig back. It was something to busy his hands now that the fire was ready, and he was reluctant to admit even to himself that carefully and thoroughly stripping the bark from the soft wood below was possibly the only thing keeping him remotely under control.
They'd made it to the water, Minho and Thomas scouting the treeline all the way round and back, an overly careful check that had taken half an hour at least, while he and Aris stayed in one place and the temperature continued to climb. It had finally seemed to peak at around noon, marking a whole day in the Arena and getting on everybody's nerves. When they had finally deemed the water safe to approach Newt had been further put out to be instructed to stay hidden with the new kid like he was incapable of anything.
Thomas hadn't phrased it quite like that, of course. He had made out that he needed Newt to stick with Aris incase someone came along, keep the kid safe.
But Newt could read the truth in his eyes, even though he didn't let on that he could. Thomas probably knew he knew anyway. They'd lived in each others heads for years, poked around in so many years of friendship that they probably knew each other's thoughts better than they knew their own. It hadn't helped any though, but he had stayed. Stood in the trees with the silent Aris and fumed half-heartedly.
He knew Thomas's game, of course he did. The ridiculous brunette thought he was being subtle by not coming right out and saying it but Newt knew. It made him feel uneasy and special at the same time and it was a feeling that was hard to pin down, to get a proper hold on. It made him truly afraid to think what Thomas would do, what he'd already done, just to keep him safe. It infuriated him so much he wanted to tell him just how idiotic he was being, and it made him want to punch him. Hard. On the nose. And then kiss him senseless.
In that order.
The thought of kissing Thomas made him even warmer and he squirmed where he sat, deliberately scrubbing his back again the trunk because he was just too close to losing his temper over something so simple as heat.
And he knew what they were doing, the GameMakers. They were playing with the temperature, winter cold at night then far too hot during the day to make them stumble, make them angry. Make them make rash decisions and hunt each other out, turn them against each other even more.
But knowing didn't help, did it?
Not in the slightest.
Still. Despite the added burn in his face, the thought of kissing Thomas was a welcome one. He had always wanted to. He couldn't remember when he had first realised what the wanting was, when he had realised that the feeling flitting through him was because of Thomas being everything he wanted. And for years he had thought it would never happen.
He knew he had definitely known on his first Reaping day, when he had stood inside the roped off corral with every other twelve year old boy in his district and tried to kid himself that if he was Reaped and he came back a Victor then Thomas wouldn't be able to say no. There were two years, just, between them but Thomas had never been a little kid to Newt, not even then. Even when the other boys his age mocked him for his friendship with the younger boy.
Not that giving up Thomas's company would have gained him anything more than the loss of the best friend he would ever have. He'd never considered it, not once. Thomas wasn't like any other kid they were growing up with. He was different in so many ways, many of which Newt had never been able to define. Not that he ever stopped trying anyway. He'd never viewed him as someone who wasn't as good as him, the way older children often do with younger ones.
When he'd been led to that corral for the first time Thomas had broken away from Mary's hold on him to run across the courtyard. He had barrelled into Newt as a solid force and gripped him tightly around the waist in a fierce hug. Newt had been a good head taller than Thomas at that point but it hadn't mattered. Thomas had looked up at him as Mary appeared to haul him away, and his brown eyes had been as fierce as his hug.
"Don't get picked." he had said before letting Mary take him off, twisting his head to look at him as he followed her, her scolding washing over his head.
Newt had watched him go and although he had always been afraid of the Games he had been more frightened in that moment than ever before. He had crossed his fingers and wished hard, harder possibly than some of the others, that his name wouldn't be called. Because he hadn't told Thomas what he felt. He had to last in the Glade until Thomas was old enough to understand what those feelings truly were, what love really meant.
And he hadn't been chosen.
For six years he hadn't been chosen, each time telling himself that if he didn't then it would be a sign that he should finally explain those feelings to Thomas. He was more than old enough, and Newt knew what he felt. But when Thomas was finally old enough, when he stepped into that corral for the first time Newt had felt a fear he didn't remember ever feeling. It wasn't just physical, it had been soul deep, veined right down to his very core. That the GameMakers could take him away from Newt was out of the question and so that day he had decided. Should that ratty-looking man on the stage ever pull Thomas Green's name from that stupid glass bowl on that irritating little table he would step forward.
Fourteen years old and he had decided what his life was worth.
To tell him after that, knowing that he now had twice the odds of stepping into an Arena… It stopped on his tongue every time. They spent every day together, every spare moment. He'd never felt closer to anyone, not even Sonya. When his parents had died he had run from her to Thomas, somehow knowing that he was the only thing that would even put a dent in the grief that was consuming him.
He'd wanted Thomas with every fibre for years and had never had the guts to act upon it, lying to himself that it had nothing to do with the possibility of rejection. He'd wanted Thomas more than anything he'd ever wanted and as agonising as it was to love him and say nothing, the fear of finally having him and then being thrown into the Arena to never have him again was somehow worse.
Only now did he realise how wrong he had been.
They might have had years together, days in the field, evenings lurking by the trees and wandering the familiar streets, sitting by the fire in the winters. He might have had the chance to kiss Thomas every morning before school, to tell him hourly how he felt but he hadn't taken it. Ruled by a fear of losing what they could have had.
And now they'd never have it, because even if they made it through tonight, the next night, the Careers, the GameMakers' tricks, what then?
In the end one or both of them would have to die.
"… like before?"
He'd lose Thomas or he'd die for him and either way they'd lose. But Thomas had kissed him, he'd finally kissed him and whether it was fuelled by the fear of the Arena or not Thomas had kissed him and it had been the best and worst moment of his life. He'd had him, finally had him in his arms, their noses brushing, mouth soft and warm against his own and he had fallen further in love with him than he had ever deemed possible and yet even as it began Newt had known it had to end.
Just as they would.
He was startled by the hand on his shoulder, had wrenched himself from the touch before he'd seen who it was, breathing heavily. Frustration boiled in his blood.
"… okay Newt?"
Thomas was looking at him with startled eyes, drawing his hand back. The others were looking too and Newt snapped before he realised he was saying anything.
"What the buggin' hell d'you want?" he hissed, glaring at his district-mate.
Thomas paused, surprised by the harsh words, his eyes a little hurt. The guilt Newt felt squirming hot in his gut was just another irritating warmth that drove him crazy along with his stupid bloody fringe! He dragged it from his eyes so hard he pulled it, needling pain shooting into his scalp. Thomas was still looking at him but he'd drawn back to level an anxious look his way.
Newt huffed, dragging his jacket off finally and dropping it in a heap beside his leg. He knew he was making a scene, irritation bubbling hot under his skin and making him want to scream. He crossed his arms to give them something to do. Their group was quiet, every eye on him. Newt was startled and embarrassed to find he was close to tears.
"Sorry." he bit out, looking away. "I'm too hot. It messin' with my head."
Thomas accepted it easily just like he always did, smiling sympathetically at him. Newt uncrossed his arms, feeling foolish.
"Yeah, i know the feeling."
Newt nodded, fiddling with the stripped twig in his hand. Minho went back to the knife he was working with, slicing the last of the fur from the squirrel they'd killed on the way back into the trees from retrieving water.
"I was just gonna ask whether you thought it'd cook the same way as the duck, on the sticks like before? I couldn't remember whether you'd stripped the bark off last time or not."
Newt felt Thomas's fondness in the air just as surely as he heard his words and he smiled back bashfully.
"Nah, i just left them as they were. It should cook fine like that."
NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
He watched Newt carefully after his outburst, knowing exactly what he meant and feeling sorry for him. Newt seemed to be taking the warmth worst of all, his skin blotched red and the odd bead of sweat rolling from his hairline. His curls were flattened and dark around his face and neck and their damp weight was obviously irritating him. The subject changed to the Arena as Thomas filleted the squirrel and Minho started on the second one, piercing each piece onto sticks and setting them above the fire like Newt had the night before.
They had eaten what was left of the duck between the four of them, curbing the edge of their hunger for now. The greasy meat had been soft and tender in the film, a small but welcome comfort. Thomas had smiled fondly when he'd seen Newt passing Aris his own portion of duck when he thought no-one could see. The quiet kid had given him the most grateful look Thomas thought he had ever seen and shuffled over to sit against the tree beside Newt's, finally relaxing into their company.
Minho sat to one side and Thomas the other, the fire crackling between them all like they were playing cowboys and indians. They had three full water bottles, complete with the dissolved tablets, and although it had an odd taste to it water was water. They'd emptied all three before re-filling them and setting off into the trees again. Despite the urge to camp close to the water because of the heat they'd pushed on in a different direction for the sake of safety.
The Arena had been quiet for several hours now, and they hadn't come across anyone since finding Aris. Conversation turned to planning. Thomas thought their safest bet was the forest, plenty of coverage and places to hide, not to mention the fact that he could climb into a tree and he'd have the perfect perch for an archer.
Minho thought they should explore more, and Thomas's curiosity piqued considerably when he informed them he already had for a bit and could cross it off their list of possibilities. He'd gone beyond the imposing stone walls on the opposite side of the Arena from the forest. Everyone was listening to him speak.
"What's in it?" Thomas asked, forgetting the sticks of meat he was turning over as he looked at the asian boy.
"Maze." Minho said, barely lifting his eyes from the second squirrel he was skinning.
"What?"
"It's a Maze." Minho said in a bored tone. "Ran it the first day right before i found you two. There's nothing in there, not even animals, and it doesn't go anywhere. Just weird stone walls and loads of ivy. No water, no caves, no nothing."
Thomas waited, but Minho simply shrugged and said nothing more. Thomas found himself curious about the strange stone Maze. What was its purpose? Why put a Maze in the Arena when the goal is to kill everyone else and survive? If it didn't hold any advantages to be gathered, what was the point? Newt just shuddered beside him.
"Buggin' creepy, if ya ask me." he muttered, fiddling with his twig.
"Weird." Thomas agreed, trying to push it from his mind. If it didn't have anything for them then it didn't matter, really. Despite the curiosity that whirred in the back of his brain Thomas set to work on what did matter - getting the squirrel cooked and the fire out before it got them cornered.
