Chapter Thirty-Nine

The sun was up. The day was heating already and Thomas ached all over from crouching so tensely. Newt had screamed himself hoarse, barely stopping to breathe. The constant and jarring noise had Thomas's head pounding and his skin itching. It was like listening to the wails of a dying animal, and Thomas had only hope to help him fend off the thought that that's what this was.

At one point Newt's eyes had opened and he'd dragged in a long breath, his eyes hazy and his shoulders twisting as he'd tried to sit up. He hadn't tried for long and when his head hit the moss again his neck arched, baring the tense muscles of his throat as he screamed Thomas's name.

Thomas had let the tears fall, afraid that if he moved to wipe them he'd someone finding them. There was a dark bubble of fear living within him and he was already exhausted from fighting it. There had been several voices screaming out in the Arena and Thomas didn't want to think about how hoarse and terrified they sounded.

They seemed to be using their voices up one by one and falling quiet like Newt had, the screams overlapping and mingling or crying out on their own in a lonely call for the pain to stop.

He thought there was no sound worse than that. One voice was howling now. It sounded very far away, shrill and distinctly feminine. His brain had counted the different voices without permission, knowledge he knew he would be better of not knowing. His ears picked out four, five voices if he counted Newt.

And he always counted Newt.

He thought there couldn't be any noise worse than the agonising screams of the stung.

Until the voice cut off abruptly and a barren silence descended.

And then the Canon went off.

Thomas kept his eyes on the shaky rise and fall of Newt's chest after that, terrified that the blare of the awful Canon would take him away. Minho left his tree and came to sit by Thomas, wordlessly tugging him from his crouch and manhandling him into a sitting position. Thomas's muscles screeched and throbbed in protest but he allowed the asian boy to push him down.

He was so fucking tired and edgy, like he'd stayed up two days straight on too much caffeine. Minho passed him a water bottle, made him drink from it. He handed him a familiar, crinkly object. When Thomas blinked down at it in curiosity he recognised it to be an energy bar. He tried to give Minho a grateful smile, but he wasn't sure his mouth followed his command. Minho barely glanced at him, his dark blue gaze settling on Newt instead.

"You were friends before the Arena."

It wasn't really a question when Minho commented later, as noon was rolling around and Thomas was picking at the second half of the energy bar.

He'd halved it automatically, remembering belatedly that Newt wasn't sharing with him. In his head the semi-circle of energy had already been labelled for the blonde and Thomas was reluctant to eat it even though his awakened stomach would prefer he did.

"Yeah."

"Dangerous."

Thomas nodded.

"Yeah, you said." he sighed, his nail halving a crumb and then again, and again until it was too tiny to spear any further.

"You didn't listen."

Thomas snorted, resting his head back against the tree trunk as he looked over at his fellow Glader.

"By the time you came along it was too late. Hell, by the time they called his name it was too shucking late. Years too late."

Minho was his quiet self again, something Thomas was coming to think of as familiar. Comforting. They were quiet until Aris finally climbed down from his branch. The kid was subdued and red from heat, his dark mop of hair slick and disheveled from sweat. He made his way over, and Minho tossed him an energy bar as he dropped his small form on Thomas's other side. It earned him a flash of grateful green eyes, a shy smile.

Thomas sat between their allies as Aris ate and leaned into his side and Minho played with one of his knives. He tossed it from hand to hand, he flipped it handle-over-tip and caught it every time. The game made Thomas edgy and yet at the same time it was comforting to see. He folded up the foil and put the half-eaten bar in his pocket.

"Thanks."

Minho nodded, flicking him a level glance.

"It was my turn to share, shank."

It could have been his imagination, but Thomas would swear he saw something in Minho's look, something that signified he was saying more than that, in his own way. Thomas wanted to know why the boy stuck around, and at the same time he wondered whether Minho was the type who would leave if he questioned it. Besides, the truce between them was simultaneously easy and complicated.

He kept watch with Minho. He cradled Newt to give him water. He retreated bad from the blonde reluctantly, convincing himself that with the heat in the Arena his presence would only feed the boy's fever. He talked quietly with Aris, telling him the things the boy asked about. Things about Newt, about their life in the Glade. Minho listened and they all pretended he didn't.

Thomas had never thought he'd be the type to spill to practical strangers. He barely managed to open up to the people he knew in his district. And with Newt he never really had to go through the process of baring his should when he needed to. Newt just… knew.

It was after noon. The worrying in Thomas's stomach returned with Newt's screaming, and he returned to his crouch because that was what he needed to do. He readied his bow and Aris climbed a few feet into the tree behind him with the hopes of being able to spot anyone coming.

Newt's thrashing was worse that time. He shrieked and growled, sharp and pained sounds as he wreathed in the moss, his limbs flailing in a disorganised and self-destructive manner. Thomas had been sure to coil the boy away from tree roots so that when this exact situation occurred he wouldn't bang his head.

Newt screamed and screamed and screamed and when he stopped he moaned out loud instead, crying pitifully. He didn't wake up, he didn't seem conscious at all. Thomas had bitten his tongue with every cry, unable to say the things he wanted to when Aris and Minho were there. Every time Newt cried out for Thomas Aris would send him a sympathetic glance Thomas would pretend he couldn't see. Minho sat a little closer.

When the girl came they caught her by surprise. She was on her own, obviously assuming the owner of the voice she'd followed, Newt's voice, would be too.

Cinnamon, he'd named her. The memory of Newt's laughter was stilted in his ears and he met her eyes before he could stop himself. She had a spear in her hand, a knife handle on her belt. Her eyes were pale brown and met Thomas's gaze with a flash of uncertainty. She didn't stay undecided for very long and when Thomas tackled her Minho was right behind. His hands slid on her face as she struggled, her knee catching his inner thigh and jolting pain through his whole body. He clamped his hands over her mouth to cut off the yelling he could feel hit his fingers.

Their knives made her eyes dull, and her blood didn't so much gush as fall from the wounds. It seemed it had accepted her fate before her voice got the memo. She died fairly quickly and Thomas got off of her as quickly as he could. Minho, as always, was unreadable.

Thomas had named her Cinnamon. It had made Newt laugh. Minho told him her parents had called her Beth.