He stumbled forward a few steps, trying to escape the suspicious smells wafting off the party host's coat and the reaching hands of several other guests, turning his head left and right and back again to try and gain his bearings.

The wavering haze overtaking his mind made thinking damn near impossible, especially with the added sway of movement from the crowd and the rapidly blinking lights spinning all around the room, but he still vaguely – stubbornly – remembered his purpose; find the others.

He had to find the others, somewhere in this maze – maze, ha – of human beings writhing all around him in increasingly dizzying patterns that made him sick just looking at them.

He had to find them and— and get to safety.

Safe.

The Glade was – had been – safe.

Why had they ever left?

They'd been safe and happy there, him and Minho and Alby and Newt and Chuck—

He blinked, and there was a girl – girl? There were no girls in the Glade. Why was that, again? – and she said his name. The sound of her familiar voice jolted him a bit closer to the present.

"Brenda," he gasped in recognition, "Where are the others?"

That's right.

They weren't in the Glade anymore, they were in the Scorch. Brenda and Jorge were helping them find the Right Arm, to escape from WCKD once and for all.

But his friends weren't here, they were – they were gone.

Where had they gone?

"Where are they?" he repeated, muted panic managing to sharpen his dulled senses and bring the world a little more into focus; they were in a sea of dancing people, not a single one of them even remotely familiar.

How had they gotten here?

He didn't know anymore.

But he needed to find the others – needed to find Minho and Frypan and Teresa and – and Newt—

His gaze darted back to Brenda as she swayed lazily to the music, her lovely dark eyes unfocused and trailing over his face. "They're not here," she pointed out needlessly.

"What?" he asked, head spinning as he tried to stay rooted to what his companion was saying.

"They're gone."

"We need to find them," he mumbled, casting about once again, eyes sliding over face after face and body after body despite the futility of the action; his friends were nowhere to be found.

Slim fingers took gentle hold of his chin, directing his wavering attention back on Brenda, who half-smirked at him serenely. "Why look? They're not here, Thomas," she pointed out with a shrug.

He opened his mouth to protest, to repeat himself as many times as he needed to – they had to find the others, they just had to, they couldn't be gone – but she made such a convincing argument; they weren't here, right? Who cared?

A tiny, sluggish part of his brain half-heartedly insisted he should care, but there was music playing and lights flashing, and Brenda looked rather lovely with a dazed look on her face, and her dark eyes were just the right shade—

they looked just like his—

Their lips met for a brief second, and the illusion shattered with surprising swiftness; her lips, though nowhere near soft and lush like he supposed a girl's lips should be like, weren't dry and cracked from dehydration, weren't quick and searing and rough like he expected his to be—

This wasn't who he was supposed to be kissing.

This wasn't who he wanted to be kissing.

Even in the middle of a drunken episode, he knew this wasn't right.

He pulled back, met Brenda's wide, displeased eyes, felt his own skitter away in shame. "I can't," he protested hoarsely.

Brenda tilted her head, fingers reaching for his face again – trying to look at him properly again – but he just shook his head helplessly.

"I can't," he repeated.

"You're not him."

A/N: I am fucking Newtmas trash. I know. I deserve to be cast out into the Scorch. But that Thomesa hallucination felt totally out of place to me. Maybe it was my shipper goggles, but I just wasn't feeling it. I'm sorry. Please don't burn me at the stake.
~Persephone