wasteland, baby! | tmr

i. the harder the rain (honey, the sweeter the sun)

a/n: yes im writing newtmas in 2023 bc im actually deranged. but i do love them and i firmly believe newt would love hozier. so this is wasteland, baby! a love letter to hozier through newt and thomas. hope you enjoy :') reminder that this fic is also on ao3 under @iheartlaz

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In the muted hour before sunrise, a boy walks along the shore.

He observes his surroundings, even if they are not new to him, because he is afraid he might forget. The boy finds calm here—in the awkward sway of the trees behind him to the inhale and exhale of the ocean tide. Raising a hand, he traces a line across the dusk sky. Over the ink-ish remains of night to the spot where first light is beginning to break. It glistens over the water, illuminating the cut of stone that rests firmly on the beach.

The boy leans against it, an embrace of sorts. Don't look, he tells himself, not yet.

Unlike everyone part of this hidden nook of the world, he comes here the most. People like to push inward, enjoying the safety that comes with community. He cannot blame them, and though he loves some of them to death, the boy simply can't forget. He reaches for the thing hanging from his neck, fingers fiddling with a small tube of metal.

He forces away the temptation to make peace with what has happened. What he has done. A booming voice over a tumbling city claimed he was clean, a savior, but the boy knew far better than anyone that his hands were riddled with filth. He carries a guilt that will never allow room for anything other than regret.

Morning light rips through the ocean, causing the boy's eyes to sting a little. Soon enough, this place will spring back to life. They will all fall back on routine, the calmness that comes with simple minded responsibilities. He cannot stay here for much longer.

Turning around, the boy spots a figure running towards him. A friend, a brother. Minho. He comes barreling towards him with a youthful smile, one that he finally feels comfortable wearing. The boy returns the gesture, but continues to lean against the stone.

"Thomas," he calls out, "It's time to get going."

The boy—Thomas nods his head. He tucks his necklace back under his shirt. Before he follows Minho to camp, he lets his gaze catch a familiar name on the stone.

N E W T

He looks away.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

Thomas doesn't like the heat.

At least not the kind of heat that becomes thick and prodding. Heat that somehow burrows into your skin and makes a home in your bones. The type that spares nobody kindness. Long days in the Scorch taught him to know better, for the heat could make swift action of those not strong enough to withstand it. 

Even so, warmth greets Thomas upon arrival at Safe Haven. He feels it buzzing around him like a distant song of celebration. After everything that had happened, Thomas expected to hate the beach, but the heat is not deadly here. It's welcoming, from the grains of sand that stick to his back to the methodical dance of a cackling fire.

He had collapsed for what felt like a millennium. Lazy hours spent on a cot, a mess of tangled limbs between him and Minho. The two were aching for rest, Thomas probably less so, but his legs quickly gave out the moment he knew they were safe. Eyelids heavy, sleep finally pulled him under.

He finds himself in a field. There is something reminiscent about the scenery. Perhaps it was the slight yellow tint to the grass or the distant glow of a lantern. Familiar enough to be the Glade, but there seemed to be an underlying atmosphere of peace. At least, that's what Thomas assumed. He had no frame of reference—there was comfort, solace and relief. Those of which came after the adrenaline of successfully escaping danger, but never once was there simply peace.