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There's blood everywhere. That much he can tell.
It covers his hands, his stomach, even his chest has the crimson liquid coating it. Blood from both the stab wound from Newt and the bullet from Janson.
The smoke from the WCKD tower has filled his lungs, tainting them with its fumes, making it harder to breathe.
Newt. Teresa.
Thomas has lost both of them tonight. Within hours of each other. Both of them, two people that he's loved and now lost. Just like Chuck.
He's gained Minho, but he's lost Teresa and Newt. He couldn't save either one of them. Couldn't save anyone. And now? Here he is, bleeding out on the platform of a Berg while they fly away from the burning remains of WCKD—Burning remains of Newt and Teresa, too.
Thomas blinks, tries to hold on to consciousness. Black dots swarm his vision, blocking out parts of the world around him.
He can blearily see Brenda in front of him, trying to staunch the bleeding with gauze. He can feel Vince's hands rubbing through his hair, trying to comfort him. He sees Gally, just behind Brenda. One hand is on Minho's back, trying to guide him away from Thomas.
Minho. Oh, Minho.
Minho's face is panicked, an emotion that Thomas has rarely seen on his best friend's face. His hands are pressing down on Thomas' stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, just as Brenda is doing. Thomas attempts to grab Minho's hands, to feel his friend's hands once again. He missed Minho's touch, missed Minho in general.
"Thomas—Stay with me." Minho's voice is just as panicked as his face is. His hands are shaking, wet with blood and dirt from the city. Newt's blood, Thomas' blood, maybe even his own blood. Thomas feels Minho's fingers, grabs feebly at his wrists. Minho shakes his head, still trying to apply pressure to his wound. "Stop it, Thomas—Let me help you, you shucking idiot."
His voice cracks, Thomas can hear the slight change in octave. Thomas wants—more than anything—to reassure Minho.
To let him know that it's okay, that Minho is safe now. Minho doesn't have to save him, he'll be okay. Thomas will reunite with Newt, Chuck, Teresa, Alby, Winston, Ben. All of his friends that they've lost throughout their adventures. Minho will be safe, Gally will be with him. Thomas trusts Gally, he'll take care of Minho.
Minho will be okay without Thomas.
But.. Minho doesn't want to let go of Thomas. He's refusing to allow Thomas to go. Stubborn as always, Thomas knows this. He knows Minho. He possibly knows Minho better than anyone, now that Newt's gone. Newt was the exception.
Is Minho going to lose the two most important people in his life, too? Just as Thomas did?
Surely not. Not if he can help it. But Thomas doesn't want help, doesn't want to be saved. No, he doesn't want to stay. He wants to rest. Minho won't let Thomas rest, though.
"I'm—I'm okay, Minho." Thomas' voice comes out weaker than he intended. Much weaker. He's losing his battle with consciousness as his blood continues to spill out, staining his clothes and the Berg's hanger. Minho shakes his head, shaking tears from his eyes. "Please, Minho.."
Minho's strong facade breaks, shatters into a million different fractals like the glass from the WCKD did when the three of them broke out of the skyscraper.
"Don't leave me, Thomas." His voice is quiet, not composed at all. Polar opposite of how Minho normally sounds to Thomas, to everyone. Weak, broken. Two things that Thomas would never use to describe Minho. "Please, Thomas. Please."
Please, Tommy, please.
Thomas sucks in a sharp breath, chest burning from the action. He blinks, trying to hang on. For Minho, not himself.
Thomas swears he sees Newt standing behind Minho. One of his hands on Minho's shoulder, the other gripping Thomas' hand. He looks different, though. No veins invade his face, nor his hands. His eyes are clear, brown irises staring into Thomas' eyes. His hair is clean, not tainted from sweat and dirt from the city. A smile is on his face, a sight that Thomas hasn't seen in ages.
"..Newt?" Thomas asks, hand reaching up. He wants to cup Newt's cheek in his palm, wants to feel Newt's touch once again. And he does. Newt moves himself closer, allowing Thomas to feel his face once again. His fingers lace together with Newt's, relief flooding him.
Thomas smiles, letting his body relax. He doesn't feel pain anymore, as if the gunshot and stab wound have both healed themselves. Vince's hands on his head disappear, as do Brenda's hands on his stomach. Thomas' eyelids feel like concrete blocks, weighing his eyes closed.
It's peaceful, this feeling. No pain, no fear, just.. Peace. Something that Thomas doesn't think he's ever felt in his entire life.
"It's okay." Thomas hears, he can't place what voice is saying it. Could be Newt, could be Teresa, could even be Minho for all Thomas knows. It's quiet, whoever it is. A whisper, barely even audible. As if the person is speaking to Thomas through thick fog or even water.
Right as Thomas loses consciousness, the voice speaks to him once more. He feels something wet drip onto his cheeks, maybe.. Rain? Could be someone's tears? Maybe even his own tears. Thomas isn't sure.
"Remember, I love you."
Remember, I love you.
Aren't those the same words his mother spoke to him? Right before a WCKD guard took him from her arms?
Thomas remembers her face, remembers her touch, remembers her voice. He remembers his father, too. Before the Flare corrupted him. Maybe that is who is speaking to him, he still can't really tell. Can't even tell if the words are being imagined, maybe it isn't even real or happening.
The darkness swallows Thomas, taking him without any fight back. Thomas doesn't want to fight anymore, he won't fight anymore.
The sleep that Thomas is currently trapped in is.. Strange, to say the least.
It reminds him of the Griever sting. He feels things, hears things.
Thomas can feel people moving his body, washing him off, changing the wound dressings, changing his clothes. He can hear muted talking, can make out some of the words they're saying. Words like "coma", "injuries", "blood loss". He hears the words, but they don't really stick in his brain. Like they're meaningless.
One thing that he does know, is that one person stays with him. Around the clock. Twenty-four seven. Thomas can feel their hand holding his own, stroking his bangs back from his sweat-slicked forehead. They only leaves for seconds at a time, always gravitating back to his bedside.
Thomas wants to know who it is, wants to see their face and hear their voice. But every time they speak, Thomas can't place who the voice belongs to. Even when he strains to hear them, the words are just garbled.
Days pass, maybe even weeks.
Thomas' perception of time is all askew. He can't tell up from down, left to right. It's as if his body isn't even his own anymore, like someone else is behind the captain's chair, controlling him.
Then—finally, after an agonizingly long time—his eyes crack open.
Everything is bright, colors invade his vision without his permission. As do sounds. Birds chirping, people talking, hammers pounding against wood somewhere in the distance. Thomas gasps, chest seizing from the motion. He jolts upright, ignoring the blossoms of pain that spread over him like wildfires.
Slowly, the room comes to him.
Thomas is inside of a hut. But not like one in the Glade, no. This one is built differently, better. Like they had more time and resources to throw into constructing it.
There's a small sheet covering him, not that he necessarily needs it. The temperature around him is nice, almost too warm. Not as warm as the Scorch had been, it's nicer than that had been.
He's wearing different clothing, too. Not the WCKD pants he had on in the Last City. Not the long sleeve, dark gray shirt he had on, either. These clothes are clean, free of blood and grime. This shirt is a button up, the top button left open. It's blue, a deep shade of navy. His pants are dark khaki in color, similar to cargo pants.
Thomas swings his legs over the cot he's laying on top of, gathering his bearings. Raking his shirt up, he examines the gauze taped on his stomach. It's neat, like someone knew what they were doing when they placed it there.
There are small speckles of blood gathering, slowly spreading on the clean, white dressing. He's sure someone will be in here any minute to change it. Possibly the person that has been sitting at his bedside like a guard dog on watch.
Thomas sighs, gathering his wits as reality sinks in. He's alive, he knows that much. Where he's currently located is a question that still needs to be answered. He decides to figure it out for himself, not waiting around for someone to come find him.
Hoisting himself upright, Thomas is able to stand. Albeit a little shaky, uncoordinated. But he's able to recover quickly, grabbing the side table beside of the cot.
Standing straighter, Thomas watches the sheet covering the exit to the hut blow in the soft breeze. He swallows any fear down, making his way outside of the hut.
It's even brighter and louder without the walls of the hut shielding Thomas' eyes and ears from the assault of his senses. He sighs, eyes taking in all of the sights around him.
The ocean roars ahead of him, mountains surround him. Huts are spread out across the shoreline, some tucked back deeper into the island. People walk around, milling about around the small community.
The Safe Haven, Thomas now realizes.
He's made it, they have made it. Not all of them, Thomas reminds himself. He's still lost Newt and Teresa. They're gone, their bodies somewhere that Thomas can't get to. Tears prick his eyes, grief slamming into his mind and body like the waves that are lapping at the rocks.
Pushing the thoughts of his mind, Thomas walks along the man-made dirt path. He's looking for any familiar faces, panic slowly worming its way into him when he's unable to locate any of his friends immediately.
Just as he's about to take off running in search of the Gladers, his eyes land on him.
Minho. Oh, Minho.
Thomas stops in his tracks, air sucked from his lungs. Minho is here, alive and safe. The raven is also dressed in different, clean clothes. His hair is combed, as if he's freshly showered. So Thomas' thoughts had been correct, Gally did take care of Minho. As Thomas knew Gally would.
Minho spots him, shoving himself up from where he's perched on a log in between of Jorge and Gally. He rushes over, border-lining breaking into a jog to get to Thomas. He stops right in front of Thomas, eyes sweeping over the brunet's body and face.
Thomas' lip quivers, his hands instinctively reaching out for Minho.
Minho immediately rushes forward, enveloping Thomas in a tight hug, pressing his face into Thomas' neck. Thomas can feel tears collecting on the skin of his neck and the collar of his shirt. He squeezes Thomas close, as if he's trying to feel Thomas' heart beating through his shirt.
"I'm okay." Thomas murmurs, squeezing Minho closer, relishing his body heat. "I'm here."
"You're here." Minho mimics, nodding into Thomas' shoulder. "You're here."
"I'm here, Min." Thomas assures him, breathing in Minho's scent that he knows so well. Minho sniffles, laughing quietly.
"I love you." Minho's voice cracks, holding Thomas impossibly close, their bodies flush against each other. Thomas looks ahead of them. Gally is standing a few feet away, an unreadable expression on his face.
"I love you." Thomas mirrors Minho's words, burying his face in Minho's bicep.
Thomas holds Minho a bit tighter, trying to push the piece of him that—wishes—feels like he's holding and talking to Newt.