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The smell of blood orange special brew is making Thomas’s blood thrum in his veins. It’s by far the best brew Gally’s ever made, everyone taking swigs, not even Thomas denying a jar when it’s given to him. It’s sweet, but not overly so. Still burns on the way down, but the citrus makes it sparkle against Thomas’s tongue.
They’re sat around the fire, the WICKED subjects and Brenda. The last ones awake, watching the moon travel the sky and the tides rise to eat up their shoreline. They’d been playing a game Sonya introduced that the Group B subjects played in their own maze. Truth or Dare. It was a simple game, everyone starting off with crazy dares to get the blood flowing beyond the liquor.
The tone was set by Harriet “leading by example” and picking Aris. Aris chose dare, and Harriet commanded he try to knock off Gally off his perch.
This was likely to keep Gally in the game since he was definitely gearing up to leave once he heard either he was going to have to do whatever dare someone told him to do or tell the absolute truth to any question he was asked. With Aris running at him at full speed, he was forced to stay put. Somewhat. Aris ended up flying in the air before landing on his ass and laughing so hard he cried.
Gally simply reached for the pitcher of special brew in response and filled his cup once more.
From then on, the dares got ridiculous, all running around and wild. The peak of the craziness started with Aris daring Sonya to sing a duet with the person of her choice, so she and Frypan sang at the top of their lungs to the — while pretty sounding — erratic rhythm of her guitar strumming. After which, Frypan was challenged to refill all their glasses at the same time without spilling, which he managed by creating a tower and making a pretty neat waterfall where everyone clapped. Next, Frypan dared Minho to run to the beach and swim out to the large rock they always hit while paddling for fish and try to bring it back, which ended up requiring Thomas or else Minho would’ve drowned, but it was now Minho’s trophy sat next to him. Soaking wet and shivering and drinking yet another glass of special brew, Minho dared Brenda to leap over the fire. That ended up getting Harriet on her feet in order to catch her and throw her over or Brenda was definitely going to catch on the logs and burn. Brenda then demanded Thomas try to climb up onto the roof of the Kitchens and jump to any roof he could until he fell.
He managed four before there was a jump he couldn’t quite make. Frypan caught him, and they both collapsed to the ground in a fit of giggles, the crowd circling them and patting their backs and pulling them up off the ground.
After that, things became far more tame, everyone out of breath from laughing or otherwise. They crawled back to their logs circling the fire, all breathing heavily and sweating, smelling like salt and dirt.
Now Brenda’s taking up a whole log by the fire on her own, her legs outstretched, jar of special brew captured in between her ankles. Aris is on the floor next to her, legs splayed out, his glass taken away from him long ago. They’re laughing. She’s teasing him about something, probably about him being such a lightweight.
Frypan’s refilling everyone’s cups when they turn out empty. He’s got a big grin on his face. Thomas thinks he might have sobered up a little since his singing because he gets sheepish whenever anyone brings it up. Whenever anyone asks him to sing another tune, he shouts, “I don’t put on shows for free!”
Minho’s to Thomas’s left, slumped against him on his third glass of special brew, warm from the fire and the alcohol. To Thomas’s right is Sonya, who is still plucking strings of her guitar aimlessly, filling the noise the crackling fire and conversation don’t. Minho’s been staring at her, infatuated. Thomas would dare him to do something about the starry-eyed expression on his face, but Minho’s better at knowing which impulses to listen to and which ones to ignore. If he’s not talking her up now, there’s a reason for it.
Across the fire is Gally.
Through the lick of flames, Thomas can see Gally nodding along to something Harriet is saying, rarely making a comment of his own. He holds his glass of special brew with his calloused fingertips along the rim, swirling the remaining contents idly.
A spray of sparks bursts in between them. When it dissipates into the night sky, their gazes meet.
Thomas smiles. Gally’s lips twitch, which is as much of a small smile as he gets. He raises his glass of special brew up to Thomas and takes a sip. Thomas feels a lump in his throat, but picks up his half-filled glass and does the same.
Thomas is only on his second glass. He has no idea where Gally is on his drink kills. Though, in Gally form, he looks completely unaffected beyond the dirt and soot on his cheek and down his shirt. Thomas has no idea what he must look like to Gally.
He wants to know.
But their attention is interrupted by Brenda continuing on with the game. She turns to Minho, raising an eyebrow. “Minho.”
Everyone’s been saying “truth” now after all their running around earlier. Despite Minho’s competitive nature — Thomas knows he’d be up for another dare — he simply shrugs. “Truth.”
“What’s something someone’s told you that you think about all the time?”
That question seems to surprise Minho. Especially coming from Brenda, whose last questions had been far more aggressive: when’s the last time you got your ass kicked, who do you think is best at sharpshooting?
Brenda seems to delight in being mercurial.
Minho nudges Thomas, and his brown eyes are deep and dark and imploring. “It was what you said to me. Back in the Glade after I asked you why you ran out after me and Alby. Do you remember?”
Thomas blinks. His heart thuds hard against his chest.
“I do.”
It was simple. When Minho looked ready to choke him out for running in after them, calling him out of his mind, Thomas had merely said, “I can’t leave a friend to die.”
“I live by that, you know,” Minho says. Thomas grins back.
“I know you do.”
He remembered Minho’s battle cry in the face of an ultimatum. Who would you pick to save? And Minho had responded with them all. He’d save them all. He’d saved them all, more than once.
If Thomas answered that question, he’d like to think he’d have the same response. But his gaze cuts to across the fire to where Gally sits, and he knows that's not the truth. That isn’t what he’s been turning in his brain over and over and over.
No, what he’s been thinking about every day was what he’d heard when he still existed in white noise after getting shot. After Newt and Teresa’s deaths, after drugs for coping with all the pain, stuck in a Safe Haven bed, not quite asleep, not quite awake.
Thomas wasn’t fully conscious, but for the first time in forever, he could hear. And what he heard was Jorge asking this:
“What’s he gonna do, our rebel without a cause?”
Jorge had been teasing, his voice mostly humor, only fraying slightly with nerves that Thomas would never wake up. Joking was Jorge’s way of dealing with the bad stuff, Thomas knew.
What he hadn’t expected was a response. Was Gally being the responder. He hadn’t known Gally checked on him. Didn’t think he’d cared enough to spend any spare time hovering above his sick-bed. Yet, there he was.
He’d replied:
“Whatever he wants. For once in his shucking life.”
Thomas couldn’t stop thinking about that. “Whatever he wants.”
I get to do whatever I want to do.
The thought terrified him.
Thomas wasn’t sure he knew how to want. Everything had been such desperate needs for as long as he woke, and he wasn’t even guaranteed those. Maybe the things he lost were wants after all. Losing them hurt like missing needs, though. He still felt a little hollowed out. Multiple gunshots, only one scar.
Once he was healed enough to walk, he was hurtled into Safe Haven’s life. It wasn’t as bad as he expected. Surrounded by the remains, with the lost written into the rock and weapons placed in chests to be buried, there was a break in the gloom. He translated books and found a purpose.
He’d had all his needs around him. They weren’t being threatened by illness or WICKED. They were with him.
Maybe he could learn to want. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him.
Thomas smiles at Minho and nudges him with his shoulder. He betrays nothing, just nods along to the memory, to the feeling of the looming threat in his bones melting away. Minho wraps his arm around Thomas and Thomas squeezes him back. They both laugh. Then Minho prepares to continue the game.
“Aris,” Minho says.
Aris perks up. He clearly wasn’t expecting Minho to prompt him. “Truth.”
“What was the first day things felt normal here?”
Minho's question doesn't surprise Thomas, though it surprises the others. But now that Minho leads Safe Haven, he likes to know how everyone’s feeling. Since Aris keeps to the Group B girls more often than not and gives cursory answers of “I’m fine” and “good”, this is a perfect opportunity to learn how he really feels. Before in the Glade, he'd push someone up against the wall and tell them to get whatever was on their mind out because they had a job to do. In Safe Haven, though, Minho is patient. Kind and compassionate. No longer harboring secreted hopelessness, he now cares wholeheartedly and openly. Fear not dictating their every move.
He's a stellar leader.
“I’ll be honest, I’m still not sure if I feel normal.” It’s a vulnerable enough admission, everyone picks themselves up to listen closely. “But, I don’t know. When I felt like I finally had a routine.”
Thomas can understand that. At first everyone was floundering, trying to figure out their place here, whether they had a place here. For a little while, Thomas was worried he didn't.
When he looks away from Aris, he can see Gally's eyes are already on him, wide and open, as if Gally's answer to this question would be personal to the two of them.
Then Thomas realizes it is.
Gally was no longer to be Keeper of the Builders.
Minho had expected a fight. Had gone over with Thomas over and over and over his list of reasons why Gally’s skills needed elsewhere, how to gently tell him Jorge or Vince or Suzanne were better suited to building up Safe Haven than he was after he built the Glade.
“You know Gally,” Minho had said. “I’ve gotta have my argument air tight, he finds gaps in an instant and I’m just — I’m not as fast as he is at responding to klunk like that.”
It was a hard truth Thomas didn't expect Minho to acknowledge. Quick as Minho was on his feet, he was similar in his arguments: he would rather deal with gaps in logic by trying to jump them. Gally, on the other hand, wanted to stop and build a whole bridge.
Safe Haven needed the both of them. Which was why this conversation needed to not completely blow up.
Except all that preparation was for nothing. When Minho informed Gally that they wanted him in a different role than building, he’d only shrugged and responded: “so where do you want me?”
Thomas pretended not to hear the slight fray to his tone, a subtle double check to make sure Safe Haven did want him. Thomas only clapped Minho on the back to spur him to keep talking.
Minho took a bit to recover. It wouldn’t surprise Thomas if he’d actually been a little irritated he’d prepared a whole series of arguments and didn’t get to use them. His competitive nature rebuffed by zero opposition, from the one person who they used to all depend on for nothing but.
They directed Gally to work in this little space they called the workshop. He was tasked with crafting not the buildings, but what filled them: furniture, fixtures, panes for windows and doors. Though Vince and Suzanne occasionally popped in to help him, he was mainly by himself.
Thomas could relate.
The first month in Safe Haven, Brenda found a bunker on a hunting expedition that determined Thomas’s job for the time being.
Books. Hundreds, maybe thousands, all with WICKED stamps on the binding. Sent to Safe Haven to be protected from the end of the world. They were probably important, but no one could read them all. No one except Thomas, who didn’t remember why he knew the languages he did, but he could. They fell out of his lips with a familiarity that surprised him as much as everyone else.
At first, Thomas liked it. A big room to himself, filled with books. He got lost in translating easily, some books on histories and others just folktales. A short story called Fyrtøiet or The Tinderbox. A large novel called Die Unendliche Geschichte, or The Never Ending Story. A science journal called Traité de Radioactivité or Treatise of Radioactivity, which Thomas admittedly didn’t know what to do with but sounded interesting.
It didn’t take long for him to hate it, though.
It was lonely. He knew he wasn’t the cheeriest person even on the best of days, but he couldn’t help but feel he was being secreted away.
Then Thomas had an idea. Every time he passed the little workshop on the way to his bunker, he wondered if Gally felt as separated as him. If Gally preferred the quiet, or if Thomas was right when he heard that little waver to his voice: do you want me here? Or do you want to hide me away?
So Thomas took a stack of books and a pocket full of pens and walked into the workshop.
The little workshop was narrow but long, the walls lined with shelving despite Gally’s limited time there was stocked with materials. On the floor were a myriad of tools, all with their proper labels, following up the wall to underneath the workbench, where the tools he used most often were readily accessible. Across from the door was a tall window where the workbench was set up. Gally stood before it, back to Thomas, sanding away at something.
His shirt was off, the muscles of his back shifting as he worked on the plank, grinding it down and brushing away the sawdust. It shouldn’t have been notable, but Thomas couldn’t stop staring. He knew Gally was strong, but there was something in the restraint of his raw strength Thomas couldn't stop watching.
“Tell Sonya the new mattresses will be done next week. Just gotta finish stitching. And I’ll go see Fry and get some food soon.”
Thomas blinked. He thought he'd gone in unnoticed, but clearly not. After Denver, it seemed everyone could feel a shift in the air, not a one of them able to figure out how to shut off all the internal alarms they'd built over the past few years.
Even so, Thomas didn’t know what to make of what Gally’d said.
“Thanks for the status update?”
Gally stopped. Set down what he was working on and looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide in surprise.
He looked Thomas up and down as though trying to solidify him. “Thought you were Minho,” Gally explained. Thomas laughed. It was nice to know Thomas wasn’t the only one who got Minho’s little check-ins. “What’re you doin’ here, greenie?”
It wasn’t that Gally’s tone was angry, but it wasn’t welcoming. Thomas leaned on his back foot, regretting interrupting Gally’s work. Gally seemed to notice, because he turned around and braced himself. Raised an eyebrow, and Thomas knew that look: you’re not goin’ anywhere until you explain what you’re doin’.
Thomas swallowed. Stepped forward. “Was, um…” He raised up the books, covering his face, trying to show Gally instead of saying it out loud. “Wondering if you didn’t mind if I worked in here? Quietly? Out of your way?”
Gally didn’t answer. Thomas considered turning around, Gally’s severe expression be damned. Then Gally walked up and placed his hand flat on the stack of books, shoving them down to look Thomas in the face.
For a moment he thought Gally was mad, which spurred Thomas’s anger. He was just asking for company, and he knew they didn’t have the best track record, but —
“Say that again?”
Gally wasn’t scowling. He looked like Thomas was confounding him somehow.
“You can just say no —“
“Greenie, I didn’t hear you.” He tapped his left ear. “Got shucked up in the city. Rings. Sometimes I don’t hear everything.” Then Gally looked taken aback himself, his jaw gritting at the admission. “Whatever, just, repeat it, shank.”
Thomas blinked rapidly. Mouth opened and closed, until he shook himself out of the trench he’d dug himself into and said:
“Do you mind if I work here with you?”
“You wanna work in here?” Gally looked back at his workbench then back to Thomas, surveying the room. “Thought you had a place.”
“I do, but, I don’t know it’s…” Thomas stammered, scrambling for any word than the one that instantly came to mind, but there was no lie that would ever convince as much as Thomas’s stupid truth: “It’s a little lonely.”
For a moment, there was no movement. Not even a breath.
Gally softened. Removed his hand from the books and stepped back.
He went to one of the more empty shelves and moved what little was there, rolls of fabric and thread, and set them on the floor. He then pressed his hands against the shelves and picked himself up on the edge, his boots coming off the floor. It creaked a little, but didn’t give.
Gally built the shucking shelves. It could probably carry a bag of stones and withstand the weight.
Then he walked back and took the books out of Thomas’s hands and walked them to the empty shelf, pushing the books onto them. Thomas realized this was his answer. This was a yes.
“Thanks Gally.”
Gally shrugged. “Ain’t perfect. Um, here.” He pulled the stool from underneath his workbench and set it next to the stack of books. “For now. If you want —“ Gally cleared his throat. “I’ll, um, fix up something better if you stay.”
Thomas shook his head. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I don’t need anything fancy.” Thomas sat down and set up, grabbing the latest book he was translating and grinning up at Gally.
But Gally froze. Stared at Thomas critically, which wiped the smile off Thomas’s face.
“You sure about this?” Then his gaze broke away, and Gally brushed his hands off on his pants. “I’m not much company.”
Thomas shut the book. Strummed his fingers along the hardcover. “You’re enough for me.”
Gally stilled. His expression was incredulous, but he didn’t argue. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a small, short-lived smile. “Alright, greenie. Whatever you say.”
For the rest of the day, Thomas worked. They remained in relative quiet, Thomas translating and murmuring words to himself, Gally shifting sanding away at planks and hammering baseboards. There wasn’t much conversation, and at first Thomas thought that’d bother him, but it didn’t. He wasn’t looking for conversation; he was just looking to not be all alone.
The next day, there was a blanket over the stool. And Gally must have woken up early that day, too, because there was a newly built crate with a label for BOOKS in his scratchy, squared-off writing.
Over time, Gally reorganized the whole place. Tipped out some of the shelving to build a desk for Thomas, grabbed another lamp, the two of them often working late. Two more crates were added to Thomas's initial one, and Gally must have figured out Thomas’s stacking system because they were relabeled: TO-DO; TRANSLATED, USEFUL; and RE-SHELVE.
Meanwhile, Thomas had lunch and dinner with Gally every day, otherwise Gally would work himself to the same sawdust that coated the floor. At first they’d worked in complete silence, but after a while Gally began asking questions about what Thomas was muttering, and grew into Thomas talking Gally’s ear off about what he was working on. Gally didn’t seem to mind, and provided some crucial insights of his own.
Thomas could figure out what tool Gally needed for a project just by looking at him. Gally recognized phrases from different languages and could provide the translated word without thinking.
Gally’s hands were still the ones matted with calluses, and Thomas was the one with ink running up his arms and all over his face. But they both smelled like sawdust and bookbindings, and found out they had more in common than opposite these days.
Aris's short answer is satisfying, though Thomas can already see the wheels turning in Minho's head to get him more involved. Nights like tonight help, Thomas knows, but they all still feel a little strange. Maybe they will always feel a little strange.
Aris turns to face Gally.
“Gally."
Gally doesn’t seem to hear him. When Harriet nudges him and points, he grabs at his bad ear and grimaces. Thomas smiles pityingly, but doesn’t say a word.
He asks, “What was your first impression of everyone here?”
It’s a good question, especially for Gally. Back in the Glade, Thomas could never be sure how many of the others he tolerated for the sake of brotherhood and safety from who he actually had a bond with.
Sonya claps her hands together, eager for the answer. Brenda pretends to laugh it off, but she’s inclining toward him, curious about what he’s going to say. Aris has picked himself up, and he’s looking at Gally square. Even Minho’s more alert.
Thomas, however, isn’t that interested. He has a feeling he knows very well what Gally thought of him when they first met.
Gally pops his jaw, gaze cutting away. Giving away nothing. He’s definitely wary of everyone’s interest. His gaze flicks to Brenda.
“Brenda, told ya I liked you when we met. You’re a tough bitch and let everyone in the room know it. Liked that.”
“Damn right,” Brenda says proudly, smiling widely.
“Aris, I don't know, you seemed fine. I mostly heard things about you than talked to you, so I didn't really have much of an opinion. You seemed kind of clingy with Sonya, but,” Gally simply shrugs to finish off that thought, making Aris scratch the back of his head and laugh.
The game is about honesty, and Gally is the king of harsh truths.
From there on, Gally seems to have an easier time of it. “Sonya, I was worried if I talked to you I’d somehow trample you, so I didn’t.”
Sonya laughs, bright and sharp. She looks every bit the sweet girl of Gally’s first impression, her hands around her guitar, her hair swept up in a bun that’s got leaves in it from rolling around but making her look like a delicate forest creature rather than a trials-hardened warrior they all know her to be.
“I was wondering why you wouldn’t say anything to me! No matter how hard I tried.”
“Yeah, it was that and the fact that, Harriet, thought you might try to kill me if I so much as breathed on Sonya.”
Harriet nods. “I would have.”
Gally grits out a laugh. “See?”
But now he’s out of people he doesn’t know very well, whose opinions he can live without. He swallows, thick, and Thomas shifts in his seat.
“Fry, you were so shucking annoying when you came out of the box.”
Frypan gasps. He jabs his finger right back, maniacal glee clear in his bright smile. “I knew you thought that!”
“You glued yourself to my side immediately and followed me around for a month!”
Frypan scoffs. “Y’know, most people would be flattered.”
“Flattered? What was there to be flattered by? You talked my ear off. We had no memories and yet you never shut up. You just talked about nothing for days. I didn’t have a day of peace for weeks.”
The two continue to bicker and next to Thomas, Minho is shaking. Minho's laughing like he can't breathe.
“Wish you could’ve seen that,” Minho says. “It was so shucking funny. Thought Gally was gonna kill Fry as a greenie. Too bad he was about a head shorter then, so Frypan definitely had him as far as bonfire fights went.”
Thomas chuckles. Tries to picture the two of them back in the Glade. Gally, boyish looking but probably as severe as ever with Frypan attaching to his hip, who as far as Thomas knew had always been filled with sunshine and mischief.
It was a funny picture, even in his imagination.
“And y’know what, shank? We’re friends now. You love me. I win.”
The laughter that erupts from Gally is sunny, and far too rare for Thomas’s liking. It’s unreserved, no sharpness to it, just happy. Everyone seems a bit stunned, but they all laugh along with it. Encouraging.
“You’re right, you won.”
Gally exhales a shaky breath. Looks to Minho, and Minho is setting his shoulders. Shaking himself out, cracking his neck. As if he’s going to pounce on whatever Gally says next.
“Minho…” Gally slumps. Nods and won’t even meet Minho’s eye as he says, “I thought you were pretty shucking cool.”
Minho deflates. His jaw hangs open. “I thought you thought I was a showoff.” Minho scrunches up his face. “You told me you thought I was a showoff.”
“You are a showoff,” Gally retorts, and Minho’s expression flattens, but Thomas can see that Minho notices the rawness to Gally’s expression. He’s not trying to be mean. He’s doing as the game demands him to do, whether or not he wants to admit these things: he’s being honest.
“I was this short, stocky kid with the pushed-in face and anger problem. You just seemed so… together. It was shuckin’ annoying.”
Thomas can’t help but feel a fondness coil around his heart. The Gally he met would have never admitted to being second to anything, jealous of anyone.
They really have changed.
“Well, gee, Gally. If you’d just admitted that you thought I was amazing, we wouldn’t have gotten into half the arguments we did,” Minho says, bringing in some levity to his voice. A bit of mercy, capped off with a wink in Gally’s direction.
“As if your ego needed any more reason to expand,” Gally teases right back. “No thanks.”
“Shank.”
“Slinthead.”
They both laugh.
Then Gally moves onto Thomas. He’s got a simpering smile on his face, as if he’s afraid to admit what he’s going to say, but Thomas nods. They weren’t each other’s number one fans, and that’s okay.
Still, Thomas can’t help but appreciate the way Gally softens the blow: “And you… Well, I knew you were trouble.”
It’s in the way Gally hesitates that Thomas knows he’s holding back.
Thomas’s gaze is caught on Gally’s, watching his expression morph. It’s as though Thomas left a door open and Gally’s walking through. His stare alone cutting right through him, an intrusion, but not a violation. There’s all this space in Thomas’s brain he’s lost the ability to navigate, and there’s Gally walking in with a lantern and a map.
Thomas wonders if Gally feels so exposed. If Thomas looking at him does anything. Usually Thomas can pick apart Gally’s feelings, but not now, not when it comes to Gally’s feelings about Thomas. There’s too much feedback in the way of anything Gally’s broadcasting, too much Thomas wants him to feel to be able to know what he actually does.
So Thomas gives them both an out. “You still think I’m trouble, don’t you?” Thomas asks, teasing.
And Gally laughs, a bit too quick and manic for it to be anything but relief. “They should really put a picture of your face next to the word in those books of yours.” Thomas snorts, but he picks at his fingernails.
Thomas knows he’ll always be a bit of a thorn in everyone’s side. He never can figure out how to stop.
Then Gally amends, “Good trouble, though.”
That strikes close to home and they both know it. Thomas smiles bright, but can’t look at Gally any longer. Thomas turns away, lets himself be distracted by Frypan filling up Sonya’s glass.
In the distraction, he doesn’t hear who Gally asks, but he hears Harriet responding. And he’s about to tune back into the conversation when he gets a nudge from Minho.
“Next time I ask you, pick dare. Okay?”
Thomas furrows his eyebrows. “What, gonna make me streak or something?”
Minho has been threatening to make every one of them strip and run across the island all game. Thomas was not going to buy into that now.
“Nope. I’ve got something else in mind for you.” Minho’s gaze is serious, but his smile is warm. None of that mischief. He wraps his arm around Thomas again and pats his arm before letting him go. “Just promise me you’ll pick dare.”
“Fine. But I swear if you —“
“I won’t. Promise.”
Then Thomas feels a tap on his right shoulder. He turns to face Sonya, who nods over at Harriet.
“She’s asking you.”
Thomas shakes himself off. Turns to face Harriet. “Sorry.” He glares at Minho who gives him a cheesy grin in response. “Truth.”
“Okay.” Harriet leans forward. One of her thick eyebrows pulled up, peering at Thomas. “What’s one thing you wish you’d done sooner?”
The question ricochets around Thomas’s brain like a bullet in a metal room. So many thoughts filter through, so many ideas, and he doesn’t even realize he’s turned back to Gally until he’s looking at him in the face.
Gally seems to feel Thomas’s gaze. Picks up his head and looks back, a confused expression crossing his face.
Thomas knows his answer. Feels it in the way his heart settles low and wounded in his chest.
Thomas didn’t know the sky could have so much color.
Thomas was on the beach. Had taken off his shoes, laid them in a line at the fringe of the grass before stepping down. The sand soft under his feet, not like the Scorch, not burning him from the outside-in. When he got to the wet sand, it was cold, and it broke apart underneath him, letting him sink down an inch or two.
In the Glade the sky was fake. A synthetic blue that changed to a solid black. Denver was always gray, desolate days and light-polluted nights.
In Safe Haven, even the night sky had layers. Purple and blue, deeper and more vibrant than Thomas had ever seen, dusted with silvery stars. Thomas couldn’t take his eyes away. Couldn’t figure it out. The stars reflected on the ocean as the tide climbed higher, and Thomas wanted to watch. Even in those smeary memories of before, he was pretty sure he’d never seen the sea.
“You wanted me?” he heard next to him, and Thomas had to force all of his startle into the curling of his fists. Gally was next to him, which he shouldn’t have been so jumpy about because he had asked for him, but he hadn’t been sure Gally would willingly come. Their relationship was still tenuous these days.
Thomas was chewing the inside of his cheek. Anxiety swelled in his stomach, crashing against his ribcage. Gally picked at his nails, as if mirroring Thomas’s own fears.
He needed to say this. Gally deserved to hear this.
“I forgive you. For everything.”
Gally stiffened. Looked at Thomas as if he had to calculate what Thomas was saying, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken his language.
“Why?”
Thomas’s eyebrows came together. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Thomas met his gaze. Refused to look away.
Thomas hadn’t gotten a good look at Gally in a long time. He was no longer the boy Thomas had met, more insecure back then than he ever wanted anyone to know, smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for — even Thomas. He no longer stood tall with his chin jutted out. In fact, he seemed to shrink himself down. Youth didn’t round out his face any longer, but somehow he was still softer than he ever was in the Glade.
Thomas had been operating like Gally would assume his old self eventually, but at that moment on the beach he realized Gally never would be like he was before. He would not be yelling at the builders. He was not the Keeper of them anymore, anyway. In fact, he wasn’t a keeper of anything, and didn’t seem to want to be.
For as long as Thomas had thoughts of Gally, he’d always seen him as someone who was unstoppably kinetic. Vocal. Fought to live and lived to fight.
But he wasn’t anymore. He was quiet.
Thomas had grown quiet, too.
“Because it wasn’t just your fault.”
Thomas knew his hatred of Gally was more a mirror than anything else. Thomas had projected onto Gally all of his mistakes, past and potential, because it was easy to do so. Because WICKED had baited him into doing so. In Gally’s death at the end of the maze, Thomas had naively thought he could cut away all the things he did that brought the people he loved into the Glade.
“Because we’ve all done terrible things.”
Thomas had done so many terrible things. Thinking back on how he threw Gally down in Denver, how quickly he was to hate Gally upon seeing him again, it nearly made Thomas sick right then. When he came back… All it did was revive his ultimate fear: to be under someone’s control, to kill without recognition for a purpose he barely understood.
Gally stepped forward like he was going to stop Thomas from talking, unable to keep still any longer. It was kind of comforting, some of the Glader Thomas knew was still inside. Not that he should have doubted that, but Thomas wasn’t finished:
“And I don’t want to fight anymore.”
There it was. Thomas watched Gally’s energy be snuffed out. He staggered backwards. Looked back toward the ocean.
“Shuck.” Gally’s voice was raw, and Thomas’s heart clenched at the sound. “I don’t want to fight anymore, either.”
Thomas’s jaw slackened. Gally sounded so tired. Thomas breathed through the rush of tears that wet his eyes, refusing to cry.
Instead, he stepped a little closer to Gally, their arms almost touching. Thomas had never recognized him as one of the people under his watch before, not really. Now, he wished this was enough to at least convey to him that Thomas wanted him here. That Gally deserved this as much as anyone else.
They stood there for a long time. The breeze became wind, but Thomas was numb to it, and it seemed Gally was, too. The stars got brighter, more of them prickling through, their light bleeding into the night sky exposing violets and oranges and pinks in a pathway of stars. Beneath them the tide rose to their ankles, shifting the sands, anchoring them to the island’s floor.
“Pass,” Thomas says.
“Pass?” Harriet scrunches up her face. “It can be anything —“
“He gets to pass. If we’re bound to being honest, but we don’t want to share, then we get to pass. New rule,” Minho says, his voice hard. “Ask him something else.”
Gally’s expression changes to one of worry, and Thomas tries to smile. Gally doesn’t even entertain it. His smiles never come easy, and he never tries to fake them.
Gally’s a bad liar, and Thomas can feel himself getting worse at it by the day. Maybe one day he won’t tell any lies, not even the ones he tells himself.
Maybe.
“I should’ve…” Thomas mumbles. Minho nudges him with his shoulder, trying to get him to stop talking. Always so protective, and Thomas smiles at him in thanks. It does nothing to clear out his thoughts: I should’ve forgiven you sooner. So much sooner. Instantly.
He says nothing. Lets himself hide behind the cover of Minho’s defense and waits for Harriet’s next question.
“Okay, how about this.” Thomas can tell by the way Harriet brightens her tone, she’s desperately trying to bounce the mood back to levity. “Who is the worst person you’ve ever shared a bed with?”
That makes Thomas snort. This one’s much easier.
“I’ve never had a problem with the people I shared a bed with, but I think they have a problem with me,” Thomas answers immediately. Minho chuckles next to him, and across the fire Gally’s got a grin on his face he’s hiding with his glass of special brew.
“Why?”
Thomas shakes his head, shrugging. “I’m a kicker.”
Gally laughs, and he would know that doesn’t even begin to cover it. Thomas really is the worst bed partner ever, but if he remembers correctly, Gally didn't seem to mind too bad.
Safe Haven had been having more lows than highs recently when it came to the build.
Food was scarce. Materials were harder to find. It’d rained for three days straight, testing the integrity of all the huts. Everyone was in dire straits. Which was why Thomas was thrilled at the idea of sleep, actual sleep.
Thomas had been given his blanket and pillow from the shed when he ran into Gally, who was also on his way over to the cots. He had his roll on his back, his pillow tucked under his arm, and looked ready to collapse.
“You look beat,” Thomas said.
Gally shuffled more than he walked, his long legs anchoring him. He yawned, trying to cover it with the back of his hand. “Yeah, it’s been a long few days.”
Thomas nodded. Walked a little closer to Gally, their arms brushing. It was warm and nice, alleviating the chill Thomas felt to the bone.
It was hard to tell what beds were open and which weren’t. People had been wanting more privacy, so they hung sheets in between all the beds and hammocks and mats on the floor, giving everyone as much of their own “room” as they could.
The two of them made their careful rounds, and at first nothing seemed to turn up. It looked like everyone was thinking what they were thinking, and since the schedules of who got beds got shucked up with all the storms, it was entirely possible Thomas had missed out on a bed.
Usually, that wouldn’t be a problem. He didn’t mind sleeping on the ground, but everything was still soaked.
Then Sonya peeked from around a sheet and came out, rubbing her eyes.
“You can have my bed, Thomas. I’ve got the night watch.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Thanks, Sonya.”
She nodded and smiled before slipping by the two of them. That was when Thomas remembered Gally was looking for a place to sleep, and he was looking worse for wear than Thomas felt.
“You should take it —“
Gally immediately shook his head. “Nah. I’ll go sleep in the workshop.”
Thomas frowned. The workshop didn’t have any good place to sleep. Thomas’s chair was comfortable for him to work in, but he certainly didn’t doze off much on it. And Gally’s workbench was exactly that, a workbench.
Before Thomas thought through what he was doing, he grabbed Gally’s sleeve. Gally pulled away at first, the fabric tugging under the grip of Thomas’s fingers. That made up Thomas’s mind.
“C’mere. We can share it.”
Thomas pulled back the sheet and walked inside, pulling Gally along behind him. On the floor was one of the bed frames Gally’d made, with a lumpy mattress on the floor. It was one of the nicer places to sleep. It wasn’t very big, though. Looking back at Gally, Thomas tried to piece together how the two of them would fit on the bed. They were both broad shouldered, and Gally himself was so tall his feet might reach the baseboards.
Gally saw the same problem Thomas did. “Forget it, Thomas —“
“Don’t be such a baby,” Thomas said, refusing to let go. “It’ll be fine.”
Gally’s body lost its tensity, everything going slack. He looked down at the bed, then back at Thomas, then back to the bed. He sighed.
“If you say so, greenie.”
After they laid out the blankets, Thomas surveyed the sleeping arrangement again. The two pillows overlapped on the edges. He debated taking his own pillow and making it into a wall between him and Gally, but Thomas had a feeling that would actually make them feel even closer.
When Gally made no move toward the bed, Thomas rolled his eyes. Walked behind him and pushed, and it was a testament to how tired Gally was, because he went willingly. Thomas then put his hands on Gally’s shoulders and pushed down, and while that earned him a flat look, Gally knelt on the bed.
Thomas went to the other side and sat, his back to Gally. Then he took a breath.
“I move around in my sleep,” Thomas admitted.
“I know. We all heard your hammock in the Glade.”
At the mention of the Glade, Thomas’s heart racketed up into his throat.
He was about to get into a bed with Gally. Gally, who’d had him thrown in the pit, who back in the Glade would have sooner decked him in the face than so much as shared a space with him. Gally, who back in the Glade Thomas would have rather gotten stung by the beetle-blades than spend another moment with.
Things weren’t the same.
As Thomas felt the mattress move under Gally’s weight, as he listened to the rustling of the blankets as Gally nestled into the bed, Thomas was trying and failing to ignore the part of him that yearned to crawl into bed and press as close as possible.
Gally had gone from setting off every alarm in Thomas’s soul to being the one who made him feel safe. And while Thomas could follow the path that brought him to this moment, from translating in the workshop with Gally to eating dinner with Gally, to laughing at his comments more often than fighting them, it still felt strange.
He flexed his hands. Clenched them once more. Breathed out his nose and breathed in his mouth and tried to white out his mind.
It’ll be fine. This was your idea.
He felt Gally’s hand on the center of his back.
“You alright?”
Thomas breathed in deep, just to feel the weight of his hand. Exhaled.
“Yeah.”
Thomas kicked off his shoes and spun in the bed, Gally’s hand falling away. Thomas pulled underneath the blankets and situated himself. When he looked up, he was met with Gally’s face.
Or most of Gally’s face. Gally had a tendency to pull the blankets to his nose.
They were too close. Thomas wanted to turn his back to Gally, look back toward the sheet-wall, but his gaze caught on Gally’s. It felt wrong to look away now.
Gally’s eyes were a soft green in the gauzy starlight filtering through the sheet. He looked exhausted. His eyebrows in a permanent stress-worked pinch, the bruises under his eyes deep. He looked more dazed than Thomas had ever seen him.
“You need to get some sleep, Gally.”
“Mm. So do you.”
“I’m trying.”
“You sleep with your eyes open, shank?”
Thomas scowled. “Do you?”
Gally scoffed, his breath heating the blankets they shared. Thomas shivered.
“Would you just relax?” Thomas asked, hoping Gally was too tired to notice the hypocrisy.
But if you can’t relax, then I can’t relax, and I just —
Gally closed his eyes. Said, “You’d be the first to tell me I’ve never relaxed in my life.”
Though the comment should have annoyed Thomas more, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Prove me wrong then.”
Gally hummed. “Yeah. I’ll do that.” He breathed in deep. “G’night, greenie.”
With that, Gally was out like a doused torch. It was ridiculous. Thomas never fell asleep so quickly, even when he was tired to the bone. Couldn’t now, painfully aware of how close the two were. He wanted to pull away, and at the same time, he wanted to pick up Gally’s arm and tuck underneath it.
In the night, Gally was soft. His eyebrows lost their pinch, his mouth was slack. The way he brought up the blankets to his nose, it was like he was cocooning himself. It was the only time in Gally's life where he looked like he might actually be comfortable, curled up in the quilts and breathing steady.
Thomas decided to focus on Gally's breaths, the rise and fall of the blanket, as constant and predictable as the tide.
Sleep was almost easy, then.
But Thomas's sleep was fitful, his dreams only sensations. Dizzy and smokey, his heart ticking away in his head like a clock, his body feeling too tight and also completely apart from him. The need to break free, the need to duck for cover, everything at war.
A weight draped over his legs, and Thomas’s eyes snapped open. He was greeted with the blue of night.
The weight across his ankles was Gally’s leg. He must have been kicking. He grimaced and looked up at Gally, and then Gally’s hand was on his head and ruffling his hair. It was clear he wasn’t fully awake, his actions heavy handed and drowsy, his eyes still closed.
“Shuck,” Gally murmured. “Do you ever stop running?”
Thomas had expected anger. Getting Gally's raw, tired voice, Thomas couldn’t help but giggle. “Has yet to be seen,” he said.
“Antsy shank." Gally scratched his scalp idly. Thomas let himself bask in the cozy, tingly feeling Gally’s petting gave him. He yawned wide-mouthed and long, then eased back into the bed.
“Sorry for waking you.”
Gally hummed. “S’okay. Someone’s gotta keep you here.”
The kindness of Gally’s tone, the simplicity of the statement, stirred Thomas’s heart. “What does that mean?”
Then Thomas realized this conversation really was in whatever shallows of consciousness he’d kicked Gally awake to, because Gally only smiled. A small, dopey, closed-lipped smile drawn out on his mouth that Thomas had never seen on his face before. Then Gally burrowed into the blankets, nose first into his pillow, his hand sliding from Thomas’s hair to his shoulders. Then it seemed he was out once more.
Thomas’s breath caught. His eyes watered a little, and he smiled like an idiot back.
And if he crept a little closer, if he let himself pretend Gally’s loose arm around him was a hold, and that this could be a regular occurrence — it was something he could deal with in the morning.
They’re all laughing then. Thomas’s face is burning under the embarrassment, but this is easy. He can handle this.
"You're a shuckin' tornado," Minho quipped.
“Good to know to sleep anywhere but near you,” Harriet says, laughing raucously.
It’s then Thomas realizes just how many walls had come down in this conversation, why the girls wanted to play this game. Every one of them sitting there were mine-fields. There was so much that could trigger them, little details that even if one’s careful, it’s possible something detonates. Yet they’re all still standing. All safe by the fire, warm and laughing.
It’s about trust.
“Probably a good idea,” Thomas says.
It’s also about knowing when to pull punches. Which is why Thomas’s next question to Frypan is a throwaway — intentional to keep everyone on the laughing track.
“Fry, am I really the worst singer you’ve ever heard?”
Frypan doesn’t even blink. “Yes. You are shuckin’ awful. Deal with it.”
Thomas drapes back in faux-shame, but Minho’s laughing next to him. The game begins to peter out to simple questions just like that. Frypan asking Aris if he was ever going to tell Frypan he doesn’t like the roast that he cooks up, Aris asking Brenda something menial. Thomas loses track of the game until suddenly Minho’s eyes are on him.
“You ready?”
Thomas looks over and sits up straighter at the look on Minho’s face. There’s an intensity there in his eyes, and while no one else might pick apart the nuances of Minho, Thomas knows Minho well.
Thomas remembers their deal. And he wasn’t kidding when he said he had something up his sleeve for him.
“Thomas.”
“Yup?”
“Truth or dare?”
His heart clenches. His head screams at him to take the easy way out. He and Minho have never taken the easy way out, though, have they? So Thomas does as he promised: “Dare.”
That smile on Minho’s face stretches wider, and Thomas expects it to be his mischievous one, but it isn’t. It’s openly elated, that grin he got when they survived the Maze with Alby on their back. The one where he thought Thomas was crazy but didn’t seem to mind.
“I dare you to do the thing I know you’ve wanted to do all night.”
Thomas blinks at him. He doesn't want to know what he means. “What?”
Minho nods at Gally. “I’ve done nothing but watch you two look at each other all night. Time you do something about it, I think.”
Thomas pulls away. “I think you’ve got it wrong –”
“I don’t.”
Thomas glances at Gally. Gally is peering back, trying to make out what he and Minho are saying.
“I don’t know, Minho…”
What if this goes wrong? What if this is being as reckless and impulsive as Gally has always claimed I was, and this changes everything?
Minho claps him on the arm. “Trust me.”
Thomas looks across the fire at Gally. Gally’s still looking at him, which makes this better and worse at the same time and he can’t parse out how that’s possible, but it’s true. Thomas’s lips are buzzing, his hands ache. There’s a fire low in his gut just watching Gally across the way, his mouth dry, lips wet. Tethered to Gally’s attention, as he has been all night.
Thomas stands. Despite the way he can’t catch his breath, he is stable once upright.
His gaze doesn’t leave Gally’s.
Even in the firelight, Thomas can pick out all the emotions that pass across Gally’s face. The moment is infinitesimal before he settles back into stone, but Thomas sees it all. The way his pupils dilate and shrink. The way his eyebrows lift up then are pulled back down, looking at Thomas like he’s crazy, because that’s familiar. He tries to squint at Thomas to complete the picture, but he’s too surprised, too curious. His eyes remain wide and warm green. Gally leans forward as if to follow Thomas up onto his feet, but reconsiders, rears back instead. His hands break apart for a moment, sliding up his pants and tensing up, leaving him exposed, before he crosses his arms once more to put up a new wall, a bigger one.
Thomas wants to raise a hand to him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He can’t bring himself to say a word. All his thoughts are bumping against each other as they make way to his throat, closing off the ability to speak entirely. It’s for the better. Gally was hesitant to utter words that grazed the idea of what Thomas is going to do. Thomas is drawing enough attention without talking.
Gally’s tracking every move Thomas makes, too. Thomas wishes that could be another truth: what do you see in me right now? Right this second? Thomas can only imagine. Despite the slow steps he’s taking, he feels wild and unstable. The ground he’s trying to land on looks safe and sure, but there’s a chance he’s going to miss. There’s a chance it’s a mirage, that he’s drawing too many conclusions from hopes and wants instead of what’s actually there. That he’s pitching himself into the dirt and will end up lying broken.
He has to fight the urge to break concentration and look back at Minho for support. Gally isn’t sure what Thomas is doing, he doesn’t have a safety net. It wouldn’t be fair for Thomas to show off his. The man who will scrape him off the floor if this goes horribly wrong.
When Thomas stands in front of him, his legs lock. Stares down at Gally, and Gally stares back.
“You’re drunk,” Gally accuses. His voice is hard as iron. His expression screws in: he’s got a stiff upper lip, eyes narrowing, eyebrows furrowing together, and he’s grinding his teeth. Thomas knows what he’s doing: he’s trying to hide behind his perfected shield of anger before Thomas can even land a blow.
“You know I’m not.”
Thomas reaches out to cup his cheek. Gally fights his instinct to pull away, it’s like a snap of a rubber band to his entire system. It tremors up Thomas’s arm. It’s another hesitation, giving Thomas leeway. And Thomas — Thomas takes it.
Gally once told him when he gave Thomas an inch, he took a mile, and maybe that’s true. But maybe, Thomas likes to think, likes to dream, Gally doesn’t mind. It seems so. Right now, he’s letting Thomas pass his thumb over the hollow of his cheek, trace the tips of his fingers to his jaw and curl over it. Thomas hopes to stop him from grinding his own teeth to dust.
“What are you doin’, greenie?”
Thank shuck no one responds for Thomas, because he’s sure the rest of the fire knows if they’re still watching, he’s sure it’s obvious what he’s doing. It’d be obvious to Gally, too, if he could just let himself believe in something he didn’t know for sure. But he can’t. He likes his answers written in stone, and Thomas can’t blame him for that. He deserves answers and shouldn’t be forced to make those leaps anymore.
Thomas crouches down, meets Gally at eye level. He can see the fight in him: part of Gally is bristling, part of Gally is easing into Thomas’s touch. At the proximity he leans away, a little distance to breathe. The shield of fury melts, his gaze skittering across Thomas’s face, making way for something else. Something complicated, conflicting, hope and fear and intrigue and avoidance.
Thomas tips his head to the side and waits. Looks at Gally’s lips, the way he presses them together, the way he scrapes his teeth over them.
“What are you doing, Thomas?”
He’s nervous. Perhaps it’s wrong, but that makes Thomas less nervous. He meets Gally’s gaze again.
“I’m going to kiss you, if you don’t stop me,” he says, quiet enough he knows no one else heard. For a moment he wonders if Gally even heard him, his expression unchanging. Thomas slides his hand from Gally’s cheek to the back of his neck, and he hears the breath leave Gally in a rush. “Okay?”
Thomas isn’t sure he’s ever seen Gally blush before. Not like this. Red rises to his cheeks, coloring his freckles. It makes him somehow more vibrant than he already is. He breathes out his nose like a bull about to charge, but he’s static. Watches Thomas, and this time when he furrows his eyebrows, he’s not pretending to be angry. It’s that same incredulous look he’s gotten from Gally so often, it only makes Thomas smile.
“Have you always been so shuckin’ earnest?”
Thomas laughs. “I try.” It’s the last thing he says before he reaches up with his other hand to Gally’s face, closes his eyes, and kisses him.
The kiss starts chaste. Simple. Gally’s lips part only slightly, chapped and yet soft underneath Thomas’s own. Thomas doesn’t push forward. He waits for the tension in Gally to give away, for him to relax into Thomas’s hold, for him to kiss back.
Gally places his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, the other gripping the front of Thomas’s shirt. When Gally reciprocates, Thomas dissolves.
The kiss is clumsy, which Thomas is more charmed by than anything else. He drags his fingers through the buzzed hair at the base of Gally’s scalp, caresses the warm skin of Gally’s cheek down to tendons of his neck. He grazes his teeth against Gally’s mouth, and Gally sucks in a breath of air.
Thomas separates, but doesn’t go far. Their noses are brushing. Thomas keeps his eyes closed and presses his forehead against Gally’s. His face is fresh red now, too, and together they are warm.
“How mad at me are you?” Thomas asks weakly, mostly joking, but there’s a sliver of fear in there he knows Gally will catch. He’s never been able to hide anything from him, even in the beginning, even when he wanted to. Now he wants Gally to know him so badly he’d hollow himself out into Gally’s hands if he could. Let Gally take his whole heart, if he wants it.
“Not mad.” His voice is rough. Thomas snorts when he adds, “Slinthead.”
Thomas relaxes, and Gally smooths one hand across his shoulder blades and pulls him close. Thomas tenses up.
“Should probably stop before Brenda whistles.”
“They left. Minho dared them all that they couldn’t catch him and took off running. They’re in the woods. Aris is trying to set up a trap that won’t work,” Gally tells him, which has Thomas jumping in his grasp. He opens his eyes, pulls back to look Gally in the face. A smile is quirking up the right corner of Gally’s mouth. He also looks more fond than Thomas has ever seen him, which makes Thomas glow from inside out.
Then Thomas looks behind him and, lo-and-behold, there are Aris and Sonya with a flashlight and a rope. Over the crackling of the fire, he can hear the rustling of Minho running around like a wild man.
Minho really is the best.
He feels Gally shaking with laughter more than he hears it. “You really do have a one-track mind, don’t you?”
Thomas smiles, and continues to watch as Minho steals Aris and Sonya’s flashlight and he clicks it off, now chasing each other around in darkness. Then he turns to Gally and beams. “Think someone’s told me that before.”
“I’m sure someone has.” Gally’s gaze drifts to where the others are running around. His shoulders ease down, and he releases a deep breath. “Don’t worry, though. You’re not the only one.”
Thomas can’t even ask what he means by that when he gets a surprise of his own.
Gally kisses him. Hard. Thomas gasps, and the arm that was embracing him is now holding him up. Gally’s other arm curls around Thomas’s waist and pulls him away from the ground, capturing Thomas in his arms and into the space between Gally’s legs.
This kiss is without reservation, like Gally was shackled the first time and now this is his taste of freedom, and he’s choosing to spend it kissing Thomas. He sweeps his lips against Thomas’s, their tongues brushing, and Thomas can’t hold back the whine in the back of his throat. Gally’s hand at his waist curls into a fist. Thomas responds by pulling him closer by the arm around his neck, cupping his cheek with his free hand, doing anything to mold the two of them together.
Thomas has never been kissed like this. Doesn’t know if anyone has. This is pure Gally. Devastating and consuming and so shucking careful in that deliberate way of his. Thomas can’t stop touching him, gripping Gally’s jacket, skating his fingers through his hair. Thomas doesn’t match Gally, instead he yields. Shivers as Gally’s hand drags in between his shoulder blades, curling around the back of Thomas’s neck. Thomas slides his hand down Gally’s chest, feels the beat of his heart through his shirt, the way his ribs rise and fall with his breathing.
This kiss shallows instead of breaks. Their kisses become softer, sweeter, until Gally ventures off. He kisses Thomas’s cheek, his temple, up into the crown of his hair. Thomas scrabbles against him, keeping himself in Gally’s lap, then kisses a path over his heart up to his neck. One day he’ll kiss him hard there, in the vulnerable divot of Gally’s throat, for now he presses a light kiss and tucks himself under Gally’s chin.
They don’t speak in the wake. Take their time breathing, needing to gather air before they’ll stop trembling in each other’s arms.
The fire is warm against Thomas’s back, Gally’s heart strong against the pulse point where Thomas rests his hand. The waves crash in the distance, lulling, and he can hear the panting of their friends, as they surely cannot catch Minho.
When Thomas pulls back, he can tell he’s more composed than Gally is. Gally’s staring at the fire, his gaze distant. Thomas taps his temple.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Gally admits.
Thomas hums. The honesty makes him float, but he’s more surprised by Gally saying anything at all than the truth of the words. The only thing Thomas can think is, “Me too.”
“What happens now?”
That question has Thomas understanding why Gally’s hard shell is closing in again. He can watch in real time the way Gally’s trying to map out the trajectory of changes he thinks this will bring.
Thomas just laughs. Gally’s attention snaps from the fire to Thomas, and he glares, but it’s hardly frightening when he’s blushing like that, when he’s holding Thomas the way he is. Thomas simply stretches and kisses Gally on the jaw. Any annoyance on Gally’s face melts easily, and Thomas has to admit, he likes having that power over him. Even if it’s only limited to moments like this.
He hopes that they have so many more moments like this.
“Whatever we want to happen.” Thomas says. “For once in our shucking lives.”
Gally recognizes the phrase. He smiles before he thinks better of it, and Thomas smiles back.
“Didn’t know you heard me,” he whispers.
“It was the first thing I heard,” Thomas says. “Took a while to sink in, though.”
Gally huffs a laugh at that. Runs his hands through Thomas’s hair, which makes him feel liquid. Thomas takes to looking at the fire, at all the glasses of empty special brew glittering in the light. Listening to their wild friends, Frypan and Brenda teaming up and shouting directions while Minho laughs.
“Want to go run after him?” Gally asks. “You might be the only one who can get him.”
Thomas considers. If he ran himself ragged now, maybe he wouldn’t kick around so much in his sleep. In the end, though, he can’t bring himself to move. He’s comfortable. Safe. Loved. It’s a feeling he wants to revel in for as long as they can both sit still. So he sinks against Gally and laces his hand with his.
“Nah. I wanna stay here.” With you goes without being said.
The way Gally squeezes his hand back and rubs his thumb over Thomas’s knuckles, Thomas knows he heard it all the same.