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Thomas tried to remember where he actually felt like himself. Before he was sick, before Newt had drugged him, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it. He wanted to tell himself that it was when Newt was sick. The countless nights he had spent in a crowded hammock with his hot breath on his neck. What he did know is that the joys of his memories with him were what kept him inside his own head.
The countless memories of when Newt first knocked on his door at his room in WICKED. Thomas couldn't keep his eyes off of him, blond and scrawny and not a care in the world as he lead him and Teresa through the halls and to their hideout with Alby and Minho. They were all children then. too young to know what was really happening except for the act that these people had kept Thomas and Teresa separate from everyone else.
He remembered when he had first met Teresa, remembered when they were learning to speak inside each other's mind and then, he remembered his ability to share memories, or thoughts, and sometimes even images with someone else. It was always a man that taught him, but he could never remember his name. Johnson- or something like that he was sure.
His mind always floated back to Newt. He got to watch Newt grow up, got to watch him somewhat mature and fell in love with every second of it. The Newt in his memories and the Newt he saw in the maze were two different people. The Newt he knew now was hard and scarred from the horrors he saw in the Glade, but the old Newt was soft and warm and wanted to always be kissed and held- his heart ached at the memory.
This was still Newt, still the one he remembered, just a little wiser. He was beyond grateful for this ability, so happy that he was able to see what he wanted to come here for. He got to see what he believed in again. Thomas stayed in his dreams throughout the night and the entirety of the next day too. He relived so many memories of close nights and soft kisses that he suddenly understood everything. He understood why Newt did what he did, because if it came down to it Thomas could find himself doing the same thing.
He found himself fantasizing over his laugh and his hair- god his hair was something Thomas just couldn't get over. Blond and whispy, he especially loved when the breeze tossed it and swept it around on his head. Messy haired Newt- fresh out of bed Newt. He relived everything with him, and he couldn't wait to show him.
He wanted the early morning grumbles and raspy voice and thick accents that night had turned his voice to. He wanted to wake up every morning with the presence of Newt, head an insult about his hair or the way he walked. He was all in, he wanted it all. When the sun rose on the morning of the third day, Thomas slept- or maybe he was just unconscious. Nobody really knew except Thomas who was simply living in his memories. When early morning turned into early afternoon, he felt something lurch in his chest and his eyes snapped open.
The room was empty, which was becoming abnormal to him. He almost always had someone to greet when he woke up, but he was almost positive as to why the room would be empty. As quickly as he could maneuver, he pushed his feet into his shoes and sling the pelt over his shoulders and headed out into the pasture of the Glade.
