Every Heart a Maze | Newt & Thomas

Chapter 20

   The next day dawned and indeed Newt had gotten through the previous one without any significant incident. Last night's sleep had been dreamless and yet Tommy was the first thing that came to his mind when he opened his eyes and was greeted by the still bluish light of the approaching sunrise. Today was the first day of the Greenie's training, and besides the hopeful expectation that they might finally find a way out, something else tugged at Newt. Doubts if this really was a good idea. Newt knew the pitfalls of the Maze better than most, he knew how dangerous it was out there. Yet he'd agreed to make Tommy a Runner. Should something happen to him now, Newt would never be able forgive himself.

Already wide awake, he pulled back the covers and got dressed before rushing downstairs to brush his teeth. It wasn't common for the leader to accompany a prospective Runner's first day of practice, but after all, he'd been a Runner himself once, and Newt didn't think Minho would object.

Quite contrary to everything Gally had said, Minho was usually one of the first to get up in the morning, likely spending hours in the Map Room before grabbing breakfast and heading into the Maze, so when he stepped out of the bathroom Newt was not at all surprised when he saw two figures winding their way through the crowd of Gladers who slept on the lawn. The slightest glow of early morning illuminated the Glade, turning everything dark blue and shadowed, still, Newt instantly recognized Tommy. A little stiff from the night at the Slammer, but not curbed in his eagerness to start the day, the boy stumbled along, a few times just missing the outstretched limbs of the sleeping Gladers. Newt shook his head, but couldn't help a grin when their eyes met.

"I see our little jailbird is on the loose again," he greeted him, "did ya get a good night's rest?"

"Slept horribly, the Deadheads are heaven in comparison, nothing beats the comfort of your bed though," Thomas replied, stretching, making his back crack as his shirt was lifted just enough to draw Newt's attention to the thin line of visible skin just above the waistband of the boy's grey pants. "Maybe it was because I was exhausted to death, but I haven't gotten such a restful sleep since."

"Hah, good luck with getting back into Newt's bed then, shank. Our leader doesn't share," Minho laughed. "Been there, tried that."

Newt was glad the dimness disguised the blush that inevitably rose in his face at the thought of Tommy trying to get into his bed. Nonetheless, he averted his gaze and began walking around the Homestead.

"Oh, you got me all wrong there, Minho. I have nothin' against sharing," he said while the other two followed him. "You're just not my preferred company when it comes to sharing a bed. Besides, you're havin' it all nice and comfy in Alby's bed these days, haven't ya?"

"And who would it be that you would prefer over me?" Minho replied with playful mockery in his voice. "Me, your best friend and by far the best looking shank the Glade has to offer?"

"For a start I'd choose someone who's not as full of themselves as a certain someone," Newt easily slipped into their usual friendly banter. "Someone nice."

"Someone nice," Minho echoed as he pulled out a key and opened up a shabby door leading to a small storage cupboard in a crooked cranny near the back corner of the Homestead. "You heard him, Greenie, you better be on your best behaviour from now on."

Thomas didn't reply and Newt watched him as he tried to peek over Minho's shoulder. Besides ropes and chains, other odds and ends and running equipment there were mainly a lot of spiders inside the cupboard. Minho switched on his torch and its light crisscrossed about its interior, eventually falling on an open box full of running shoes.

"This right there's the number one supply we get," Minho announced. "At least for us. They send new ones in the Box every so often. If we had bad shoes, we'd have feet that look like freaking Mars." He bent over and rummaged through the pile. "What size you wear?"

"Size?" Thomas asked, obviously irritated by that question. "I... don't know."

"What's in those you're wearing right now," Minho suggested and Thomas reached down to pull off one of the shoes he'd worn since coming to the Glade and took a look inside.

"Eleven."

"Geez, shank, you got big feet." Minho stood up holding a pair of sleek silver ones. "But looks like I got some – man, we could go canoeing in these things."

"Those are fancy." Thomas took them and sat at the ground to try them on while Newt leaned against one of the trees to take some weight off his bad leg. Minho grabbed a few more things before he walked out of the cupboard to join them.

"Only Runners and Keepers get these," he said as he let a wrist-watch drop into Thomas' lap. It was black and very simple and resembled the one Minho had around his wrist. With the difference that it wasn't that worn and the display didn't show any scratches yet. "Put it on and never take it off. Your life might depend on it."

"Why doesn't Newt have one?"

"He-"

"Lost mine some weeks ago," Newt interrupted Minho. "None of your bloody business." That had come out harsher than he'd meant it to be. Minho gave him a sharp look.

"Through sun and shadows the time can be roughly determined, being a Runner requires more precision though," Newt explained, avoiding Thomas' gaze. "I'm not a Runner any more."

"But as leader you're certainly above the Keepers and Minho just said that-"

"Anyway," Minho continued talking, "here's a rucksack, water bottles, lunchbox, some shorts and T-shirts, other stuff." He nudged Thomas, who looked up. Minho was holding out a couple of pairs of tightly cut underwear, made from shiny white material. "These bad boys're what we call Runnie-undies. Keeps you, um, nice and comfy."

"Nice and comfy?" Thomas looked between Minho and Newt, blinking in confusion.

"Yeah, ya know. Your-"

"Yeah, got it." He took the underwear and other stuff and stuffed everything in the rucksack. "You guys really have this all this all thought out, don't you?"

"Couple of years runnin' your butt off every day, you figure out what you need and ask for it," Newt said with a shrug as Minho started stuffing things into his own rucksack.

"You mean, you can make requests? Supplies you want?" Thomas asked, eyes widened in surprise. "Why would the people who'd sent us here help so much?"

"Of course we can. Just drop a note in the Box, and there she goes. Doesn't mean we always get what we want from the Creators," Minho explained. "Newt keeps asking for books but he's only got like three over those three years we've been here. The Creators apparently don't care much about virtues of that kind."

"Ever asked for a map?"

Minho laughed. "Yeah, tried that one. Asked for a TV, too, but no luck. I guess those shuck-faces don't want us seeing how wonderful life is when you don't live in a freaking maze."

Looking at Thomas Newt felt a tickle of doubt that life was so great back home – what kind of world allowed people to make kids live like this? It wasn't the first time that thought had occurred to him, but this time it was different, as if its source had been founded in actual memory, a wisp of light in the darkness of his mind.

Thomas finished lacing up his shoes, then stood up and jogged around in circles, jumping up and down. "They feel pretty good," he announced. "I guess I'm ready."

Minho was still crouched over his rucksack on the ground; he glanced up at Thomas with a look of disgust. "You look like an idiot, prancin' around like a shuck ballerina. Good luck out there with no breakfast, no packed lunch, no weapons."

Thomas stopped mid-movement. "Weapons?

"Weapons." Minho stood and walked back to the cupboard and opened a trapdoor in its floor. "Come here, I'll show you."

Minho went first; Thomas looked at Newt as if asking permission to follow. Newt winked at him before approaching the opening in the floor and stepping into it. The stairs creaked with every shift of weight as they descended the dozen steps. The cool air was refreshing, despite the dust and the strong scent of mildew. They hit a dirt ground and were surrounded by impenetrable darkness. Newt hadn't been down here in ages, but he blindly found the string hanging from the ceiling, he pulled it and a single light bulb lit.

The room was at least ten square metres. Shelves lined the walls, and there were several blocky wooden tables; everything in sight was covered with all manner of junk. Wooden poles, metal spikes, large pieces of mesh, rolls of barbed wire, saws, knives, swords. One entire wall was dedicated to archery: wooden bows, arrows, spare strings.

"Wow," Thomas murmured to Newt's right, his voice a dull thump in the enclosed place. "Why do you need so many weapons?"

"We don't," Newt said, running a finger over one of the swords that had a thick layer of dust on it. "It was all here before we came. I don't know what the Creators intended us to do with them, none of this is really helpful out there. Unless-"

"Unless they wanted you to fight each other," Thomas finished his thought, looking at Newt, terrified.

"Yeah, well," said Newt and a chill ran down his spine at the thought. "Luckily, Minho only found access after we'd already established a society of sorts. Rules and all."

"Don't use most of it now either," Minho added. "But you never know. All we usually take with us is a couple of sharp knives."

He nodded towards a large wooden trunk in the corner, its top open and leaning against the wall. Knives of all shapes and sizes were stacked haphazardly all the way to the top.

"Seems kind of dangerous to have all this stuff," Thomas said. "What if Ben had got down here right before he went nuts and attacked me?"

Minho pulled the keys out of his pocket and dangled them in front of Thomas' face. "Only a few lucky toads have a set of these."

"Still..."

"Quit your bellyachin' and pick a couple. Make sure they're nice and sharp. Then we'll go and get breakfast and pack our lunch. I wanna spend some time in the Map Room before we head out."

With that, Minho disappeared back up the stairs and Thomas watched him go, then turned his attention back to the box full of knives. Undecided, he took out a few, weighed them from hand to hand, and pretended to stab them into something.

Newt laughed at his clumsy movements and held up his hands defensively. "Tommy, stop, or you'll end up stabbing yourself or somethin'."

Thomas turned, some long black-bladed dagger still raised. Newt backed away a bit.

"Uh, sorry," Thomas said and lowered his hand. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"I can see that," Newt smirked, closing the gap between them and reaching for Thomas's hand. When his fingers curled around the other's to adjust it higher up the hilt, closer to the blade, he avoided looking directly at Thomas. "That's better. Holdin' it closer to the blade will give ya more control over your movements."

"Like this?" Thomas asked, and drew momentum to ram the blade into an imaginary opponent. Newt's fingers slipped from Thomas' hand to his wrist as he stepped behind him and quick-wittedly grasped at it, stopping Thomas before his over-enthusiastic movement could have him ramming the dagger into his own chest. How the hell had this boy managed to survive a night in the Maze?

"No," Newt said. He found himself standing way too close to Thomas; his entire front against his back, hand still tight around his wrist, he tried to calm his racing heart. "Maybe you should leave the weapons to Minho for now."

"Uh yeah sure," Thomas turned his head to look at Newt who immediately let go of him, like he'd been burned. "I don't see how this is going to help me out there anyway."

Thomas eyed the dagger in his hands, then went back to the box and selected another short silvery one with a rubber grip. "The Grievers will be so impressed."

Newt cleared his throat, his entire body still tingling from being near Thomas. "You've already killed one of 'em."

"Maybe, but I was lucky. I'm not sure how a dagger would have helped me then," he lowered his eyes to the ground, as he continued, his voice was little more than a whisper, "or if I could do it again."

"I never asked you about what happened that night."

"I figured Minho already told you everything."

"Most of it, not everything."

"Oh," was all Thomas said. He twirled the daggers between his fingers, then looked up and his gaze met Newt's. "Well, I don't know what Minho told you, but it's not that I actively killed that Griever, it was more like, uh, by accident. A happy coincidence. I was in the right place at the right time."

Newt didn't look away, didn't even blink, wasn't surprised by Thomas' sincerity which only reinforced how he already felt about him. Tommy was one of the good guys. He didn't owe Newt honesty. He could have let Newt believe he'd exactly known what he was doing when he took down that Griever. Newt was sure most of the other Gladers would have; they would have seized the glory of such an act, but Thomas was different. For some reason he'd confided in Newt. And it didn't matter whether he was a hero in shining armour or just an exceptionally lucky bastard, all that mattered to Newt was that he'd brought hope back when he'd thought it lost forever.

"I can understand if you no longer want me to be trained as a Runner, I'll just-"

"Slim yourself," Newt silenced him with a wave of his hand. "You wanna find a way out of the Maze, don't ya?"

"Yes but-"

"I want that, too."

"But the others-"

"The others are as sick of this buggin' place as I am, and you're the best hope we've, even if some haven't understood that yet. So you'll pull yourself together and get me the shuck out of here. All of us. I've faith in you, that's why I made you a Runner. But what about you, you still think you can do it?"

"Yeah," Thomas nodded emphatically. "I think I can do it."

"Good that," Newt said, smiling before briefly placing his hand on Thomas' shoulder, unsure of what to do next. He cleared his throat. "We should go have breakfast. Minho's waiting."

Newt turned towards the steps, but Thomas stopped him, grabbed his hand and Newt's heart jumped so hard he thought it would leap out of his chest.

"Thanks, Newt."

Newt stared at their hands between them, his own with his long pale fingers in Thomas' slightly smaller one and he had to swallow before he could speak. "You shouldn't thank me too soon. The Maze is ungracious and before you know it you'll be wishin' you were spendin' your days with Gally and the Builders."

Thomas chuckled. "We both know that will never happen."

"Breakfast?" Newt reminded him again.

"Breakfast sounds good," Thomas said, releasing Newt's hand.

"Last one turn off the lights," Newt called over his shoulder when he already was halfway up the stairs.