Thomas arrived in the glade, confused and without his memories just like anyone else, but it was less than a week before things began to change
I also added some of my own events for a little bit of ✨spice✨
This will probably be a mixture from the...
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Two days after Winston died. Two days since Thomas heard the gun fire in the distance. Two days of silence. Silence from himself. Silence from Newt. They walked. Having drank the last of the water two days ago, Thomas felt his feet drag, the sun absorbed any energy that he had before. He didn't want to walk anymore, he didn't want to crawl. He wanted to shrivel up under the sun and wither away with the sand in the wind. Not to mention the starvation. Thomas didn't have any food left for himself. His bag had the medicine he'd stolen from the pharmacy now, that would do nothing for him. It was a couple hours before sun set before the first boy collapsed under the sun. The unbearable heat finally got the best of him, and the others weren't far off. Minho, having the only remaining water kept for emergencies, went to his side. It wasn't a Glader that Thomas knew. He'd seen him of course, but for some reason he never bothered to learn his name.
The rest of the group stopped, most of them flopping to the ground with a hard thud. Thomas did. Somewhere along the way they'd lost the sand, no more piles of sand dunes to weigh their feet down anymore than they were already. The sand was replaced with hard, dehydrated earth that cracked beneath their feet. There was no shelter, no water, and no food. Thomas wasn't even sure how he was even sweating anymore, he didn't know what was real half the time either, mirages flooded his vision. He only knew they were fake because the others never reacted, even when they were right in front of them.
Thomas fell to the ground where he stood, removed his bag and put it under his head. His mind was one big blur, one big fog of thoughts and images that he couldn't decipher. His blinks slowed until his eyes didn't open again, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.
He saw Winston, but it wasn't Winston. He wasn't himself, the black veins were protruding painfully from his skin, and some kind of black substance leaked from his mouth and on his lips and down his chin. His eyes were the worst part, black and wild. He was sick. The Flare crept in and made a home there, it overstayed its welcome and overtook the host. Suddenly he understood what Newt had said before, he didn't want to be one of them, and the fact that Winston had become infected was only proof that not everyone was immune. He woke, but it felt as though he hadn't even slept. Just lay on his pack with his eyes closed, and maybe he did. He was the furthest away from the group now, everyone had huddled together to keep warm from the nights chill air. Thomas was shaking, so uncontrollably that he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or from his dream. Maybe it was because Newt wasn't there.
Newt.
They hadn't spoken since they kissed the second time , since Winston. Newt was ignoring him, he was sure of it. Maybe he regretted everything, maybe Thomas gave himself too quickly. Maybe when Newt cursed, it wasn't such a good thing. Maybe. There were so many maybes in his life and not enough knowing that it drove him crazy. Not knowing if they were going to make it to the mountains, not knowing if they'd survive the next day, not knowing if there was a safe haven. Not knowing if Newt loved Thomas like Thomas loved him. It's the not knowing. He watched the sky, alone. Physically and mentally, he felt empty inside. Void of the comfort of company and the warmth of home. Home. He'd never known a true home, never really had a place to call home. And yet, he was comfortable with him, maybe he was home. Maybe.
