Newt

Dear Thomas,

This is the first letter I can remember writing. Obviously, I don't know if I wrote any before the Maze. But, even if it's not my first, it's likely to be my last.

I want you to know that I'm not scared. Well, not of dying, anyway. It's more forgetting. It's losing myself to this virus, that's what scares me.

So every night I've been saying their names out loud. Alby, Winston, Chuck.

And I repeat them over and over like a prayer and it all comes flooding back.

Just the little things like when the sun used to hit the Glade at that perfect moment right before it slipped beneath the walls.

And I remember the taste of Frypan's stew. I never thought I'd miss that stuff so much.

And I remember you.

I remember the first time you came up in the Box, just a scared little Greenie who couldn't even remember his own name.

From that moment you ran into the Maze, I knew I would follow you anywhere. And I have. We all have.

If I could do it all over again, I would. And I wouldn't change a thing.

My hope for you is when you're looking back, years from now, you'll be able to say the same.

The future is in your hands now, Tommy. And I know you'll find a way to do what's right. You always have.

Take care of everyone for me. And take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy.

Thank you for being my friend.

Goodbye, mate.

Newt.
I’ve done this in another post but here you are again :)

Dear Thomas,

This is the first letter I can remember writing. Obviously, I don't know if I wrote any before the Maze. But, even if it's not my first, it's likely to be my last.

I want you to know that I'm not scared. Well, not of dying, anyway. It's more forgetting. It's losing myself to this virus, that's what scares me.

So every night I've been saying their names out loud. Alby, Winston, Chuck.

And I repeat them over and over like a prayer and it all comes flooding back.

Just the little things like when the sun used to hit the Glade at that perfect moment right before it slipped beneath the walls.

And I remember the taste of Frypan's stew. I never thought I'd miss that stuff so much.

And I remember you.

I remember the first time you came up in the Box, just a scared little Greenie who couldn't even remember his own name.

From that moment you ran into the Maze, I knew I would follow you anywhere. And I have. We all have.

If I could do it all over again, I would. And I wouldn't change a thing.

My hope for you is when you're looking back, years from now, you'll be able to say the same.

The future is in your hands now, Tommy. And I know you'll find a way to do what's right. You always have.

Take care of everyone for me. And take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy.

Thank you for being my friend.

Goodbye, mate.

Newt.

Spring, true Spring, always comes with a lot to be done outside. In the Glade, they hadn't had seasons -- it had been warm and bright most days. Some days, it might have rained, but the temperature didn't fluctuate much. The soil was good, and things grew. In Darrow, Newt has to spend some time in his own garden, the glass roof pushed back to let in the blue of the sky. He'd called Yona earlier and asked her if she wanted to come and help. Kavinsky is down at the studio and it's a nice chanc eto spend some time hanging out with one of his best friends, with his hands in good, rich earth.

It sounds like a entirely pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the day kind of unravels after that. Neither of them are particularly productive and, eventually, Newt found himself running a tub while Kavinsky sprawls on the bed in their room. Newt wanders back to the bathroom door, leaning his hip against the frame.

"Well," he says. "When we decided to give fostering a try, I don't think either of us were expecting this level of trouble from his girlfriend." He takes a sip of his beer. "Poor kid."

Sometimes, he can't help himself. He comes in from the garden and Kavinsky is cleaning, pottering around and tidying up. There's laundry half done, a load still to go in a basket on the table; the air smells of something lemony and astringent. House work is always something that sort of eludes Newt, just because it was the least important thing in the Glade. There were always other things to be done.

He stands in the doorway and watches Kavinsky for a moment, the bare skin of his back, freckled across his shoulders. The casual way his hair is ruffled back from his forehead, sweatpants low slung over his hips and ass. Newt growls low in the back of his throat and crosses the room, dropping his gloves and wraps his arms around Kavinsky from behind, one hand sliding over the warm, fat muscles of his belly, landing a kiss on the side of his neck.

They ride it out and, gradually, the city outside the windows goes quiet. Newt lies in the hospital bed, feeling scraped out and hollow, but better than he had. The doctors keep telling him that everything should level out, that they've tweaked his treatment, his medication, that they're going to introduce a pill for him to take daily, that it shouldn't happen again. There's nothing that he can do but nod and smile but, in his core, he feels that whatever they've done is working.

He feels still, somehow.
He wakes up to someone sitting beside his bed. He shifts.

"Hey, shank."

While they're walking, he texts Kavinsky to check in. He asks if he's okay to take Even to the apartment. He asks if he's alright to go as far as he wants to. Kavinsky's response settles a warmth into Newt's chest. Odd, in this situation, to feel so secure, so bloody loved.

I love you, he texts back. Back before morning.

He lets them into the studio and then turns to look at Even, head tilted to one side.

"So," he says, grinning. "You still think I'm bloody trouble?"

Something isn't right here.

Something's missing. Lately, it isn't unusual for Kavinsky to not come home (though he always texts, always checks in, always makes sure that he's got permission). Al, though. Al doesn't stay out. Al comes home.

Except he didn't come home last night and Newt wakes up hollow, wakes up sure that something's wrong. He does the dishes, tidies up, picks up his phone and checks that he's got no messages. He calls Beca, just to be sure, then realises that there isn't really anyone else to call. There isn't really anywhere else that Al would go. He texts Tris anyway. He doesn't hear anything back.

His heart feels like a shucking wound in his chest.

He pads back into the bedroom and sits down on the edge of the bed, which seems impossibly huge with just one boy sleeping in.

"Kavinsky?" he says softly. "Joe? Can you wake up a little, love?"

The moment he wakes up, he knows that something is off. Al's already up and out somewhere but Kavinsky is still in bed and Newt reaches out, nudging him between his shoulder blades. He blinks, rubbing his eyes. He very deliberately doesn't look down.

"Hey, shank!" he says. "Wake up and tell me how bad it is."

The study is probably his favourite room in the house. It's only tiny, but it's got a desk and chair, a bookshelf well on it's way to being overloaded, a couch that Kavinsky dreamed to be both sort of beaten up but also incredibly shucking comfortable. Newt ends up in there to do his homework but, just as often, he sits in there reading, listening to the sound of his boyfriends off somewhere in the little house.

That afternoon, he's come in from the garden to do some homework, installed himself at his desk. There's a cup of tea at his elbow. He tunes tunelessly to himself as he works.

It's a life he never imagined he'd have.
It's bloody amazing.

Everything hurts, but in a good way - in a way that tells him that his body is digging back, finding ways to heal. He's been taking a lot of baths, drinking almost constant tea. He doesn't wear his own clothes, preferring to be swaddled in Al's jumpers, Kav's sweats. He curls on the sofa, watching another movie.

"Hey, Joe?" He calls, knowing the other boy is in the apartment somewhere.