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His feet sunk into the sand, the debris whipping up and into his face, blinding him. It rubs and burns into his eyes, but that means little to him while the winds rage high around them. Flashes of dark lightning ripple across the sky, the sound of thunder almost echoing overhead. His lungs burn with each inhale of dust, his brows furrowing into a grimace of an expression when he sees his fellow Gladers fall. There is nothing he can do for them anymore.
He felt more than heard the explosive strike that digs into the ground far away, and he sees shards of glass fly. He felt a fierce sense of alarm flash through him - that shouldn't happen, not unless it was really hot. He dodges around the crater, and chances upon Jack, who is writhing in agony, screeching as blood as dark as tar poured out of the stump of a leg. Thomas averts his gaze, trying to ignore Jack's cries of alarm and dismay. He has to survive, is the only thought that plagues his mind. His legs pump, his lungs burn with exertion, and adrenaline pouring through his veins. He narrowly misses an explosion to his right, debris and rubble exploding in a spray of shards.
Thomas sees Minho up ahead, feet pedalling through the Scorch sands like he was used to it. He saw the ripple of light flash across the sky before Minho did. "Minho!" he yells, the sound lost under the sound of thunder. He sees the Asian go up in flames, his clothes catching on fire - a walking inferno. The sand does little to extinguish the flames, but the fierce patting down seems to settle it down. Minho is covered in thick soot, heavy burns marking his skin in gruesome lines, his skin beyond frayed and cracked. Thomas can't bear to look, instead dragging Minho from beneath the arms across the ground, trying to outpace the bolts of electricity.
The've almost reached the first house when a jolt ripples through the sky, electricity resonating around the place of impact. The flash knocks him over, the whip of sound was unbalancing and horribly loud, a piercing noise like horrible static that brought him to his knees, struggling against the pulsing in his head. He forces himself to regain his balance, to gather Minho back in his arms before slumping into the house, closing the door and resting the Keeper down nearby. He notices Frypan, who is far better off than Thomas or Minho were, rush over to inspect the wounds.
The ringing in his ears only begins to subside not long afterwards, but it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, to calm his breathing. His chest still burns from the sand he's breathed in, and his eyes still ache in that horrible, daunting way. He's almost grateful that it's raining, that it's likely cooling the body temperatures of whoever still lived out there. If anyone was alive. He was so focused on watching the rain falling that he almost missed it. It's startling quiet, aside from the dull pounding in his ears. His breathing feels heavy coming from his chest.
He moves his leg, accidentally kicking another Glader who was just curled up. He says an apology, the words spilling past his lips, and the Glader retaliates, a grimace of pain flashing across their face as they cringe away, cursing Thomas out with their lips moving fast and -- there weren't any words coming out of his mouth. The nameless Gladers' lips moved, teeth clenching, pressing against the wounds with frantic hands. They've since moved away from Thomas but that wasn't the problem. Thomas looks frantically towards the open doors and smashed windows, feeling something full rise up in his chest.
He focuses and - there's nothing. He couldn't hear the rain. At all. There was no sound, even while it barraged the pavement. His ears still had a distant buzzing, like the feedback from an old television set on a channel that didn't work or a radio out of tune. He couldn't hear. Thomas' hands shot up to his ears, feeling small rivets of slickness and warmth that he hadn't paid attention to before. There's sand and dirt pressed into the cuts, so he thinks it's from the explosions, but his ears are slightly torn so he can't tell.
He felt like throwing up, his panic crashing down on him and dragging him under. His vision blackened slightly, like he was looking down a tunnel. How was he supposed to survive now? How was he supposed to help everybody get the cure?
Thomas?
He cringes away from the voice, his hands shooting up and finding their home nestled by his ears again. It was so loud, so jarring and distant, like a bad telephone connection. It was Aris' voice, unmistakably, but Thomas didn't want to hear his voice. Not now. Not when everything else was so quiet.
Thomas, are you okay? Dude, you don't look -! Hey!
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Sh- "-ut up shut up shut up shut up!" He can feel his lips move, feel the vibrations in his throat, felt the air that exhaled from his lungs. He felt the words leave his lips but heard no sound reach his ears.
Thomas, listen to me, man. You're hyperventilating. I'm - I'm going to get Newt, okay?
Aris. Don't. He reaches out, his own thought voice sounding distorted. It felt awful, blood curdling and body numbing sensation that tore through him like a bad paper cut. He could taste copper on his lips, and he's only numbly aware of his teeth tearing through his lips. Please, don't, I'm going to be okay. He could feel Aris' mental presence shift, as if sensing the lie, receding before driving back full forth, a sharp pain flashes from behind Thomas' eyes at the momentum applied.
You look really bad. Newt can help you. I know he can. Don't fight me on this, man.
He grinds the back of his heels into his eyes, shoulders shaking as he tries to suppress his shudders. He can feel a heavy wetness soak his skin, exhaustion flooding through him, and a terrible, terrible haunting sensation settled over him. It's only moments when he feels a familiar touch to his shoulder. He jerks, having not heard the footfalls approach and glances up. The distant light through the window flashes cross Newt's face, making his features prominent and all the more enticing, with the strong jawline and the wild tousled hair that looked nearly white with each strike of lightning. It wasn't hard to read the concern in his eyes, or in the way his lips moved. His tongue curled, rasping against his teeth and behind his cracked lips, o's popping and s's rolling, but Thomas could make no sense of it. Newt's shoulders shake a little with amusement, although it seems forced, by how tight the skin around his eyes are. Newt had caught onto Thomas staring at his lips - 'Want me to bloody kiss you?' he'd probably say, if he had the tactless humour of Minho - but hadn't made a comment on it.
Minho ... Thomas looks over his arms, where his fingers are digging crescents into his skin with next to no pain, at the boy who lay almost lifelessly. His chest still rose and fell and that seemed to be the only indicator that he was alive, his expressive brows furrowed into a grimace of pain. Oh god, oh god, what if what had happened to Thomas had happened to Minho, as well? On top of the burns, that would be a living nightmare... He feels Newt's fingers curl beneath his chin, rough and calloused from days spent in the Glade, turning Thomas' head back to face him.
His lips move again, his expressive features curling into an evidently worried expression. Thomas could feel his chest begin to seize up again, the panic flit in. "I can't hear you," he whispers, or maybe he yells it, he doesn't know. His throat feels raw and his eyes are burning but he can tell that Newt is looking at him with growing concern. "All I can hear is Aris but I don't want to hear his voice." He wants to say that that telepathic communication was for Teresa only, but no, that wasn't quite it. If he had a choice of whose voice he could only be able to listen to, it wouldn't be Aris, no matter how nice the boy was. "I can't hear you talking to me, Newt."
Newt's fingers curl into Thomas' flesh, wiping away the tears that had spilled onto his cheeks. His lips are moving again, slower but Thomas still can't understand. It feels like his world is falling apart, swept into a vortex of spinning disaster after disaster. He can't live like this. A forbidden thought floats up - he doesn't have to live like this, there is always an out - but if Newt was anything, he was the Glue -and you can't get rid of the Glue, ever-, and his fingers, stroking Thomas' shoulders in a comforting manner brought him back from the dark, reminded him of where he was. Newt was a constant, never changing and always pulling Thomas back to reality, but maybe this time reality is too much for him to handle.
Newt is speaking slower this time, his hands sliding down Thomas' arms to slip around his wrists before settling around Thomas' hands, his grip like a vice while he twines their fingers. 'You're going to be okay.'
Thomas doesn't want to see those words spoken to him. "It's not -"
Newt's grip tightens just a bit, to stop him from closing his eyes, to make Thomas look at him. 'We can pull through this, Tommy. You don't need to hear me to understand me. You are still worth something.' His eyes soften, and he can almost feel the panic slip from his grip with every squeeze from the blond. His next words are indecipherable, too quick for Thomas' eyes to follow, but there's a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks from whatever the admission was.
"What?"
'You are worth everything to me. So, please, don't think you are nothing.'
Thomas closes his eyes, and lets Newt move his hands elsewhere. He feels the fingers curl against his hands, and Thomas wants to draw back, to curl away and find everything to be a dream. He feels the taller blond tug onto his arms, and Thomas all but folds onto the boy's lap, letting the older boy brush his face into his mop of dark hair. 'Just because you can't hear me, doesn't mean your other senses doesn't exist,' he feels Newt murmur into his hair, fingers stroking the exposed flesh of Thomas' skin, hoping to calm his frazzled nerves. It's hard to figure out what the blond is trying to say when Thomas can't look at his lips, but he can guess. 'I'll still be here for you, Tommy. Always.' Thomas can feel Aris press onto him, his thoughts gliding, not really forming words except for quick jabs of nonsensical emotions of deep-rooted concern. Thomas pushes back, not wanting to hear the other boy, not wanting to listen.
'We'll pull through this, I swear it,' he feels the words press into his skin. He watches, dazedly, as the rain falls outside, ripples of lightning sparking across the dark clouds almost lazily. 'Tommy.' Thomas closes his eyes, trying to focus on trying to make out what Newt is saying, so he can only guess. The dull throbbing in his ears was vehement, an echo of an ache. He feels the rise and fall of Newt's chest against his head, but still, no sound penetrated his ears. Newt says something else, but Thomas is too lost in his thoughts to focus on the way Newt's mouth curls against his skin.
There was still terror, just beneath the surface, that he'll be this way forever. How is he supposed to help them cross the Scorch if he can't even hear his own voice? How was he supposed to help anyone like this? How was he supposed to survive? His worry must have been visible on his face, because he could feel the blond press reassuring circles into his back.
The sound of silence was deafening, and even Newt's presence couldn't bring the noise back.