Universe: Combination.

Pairing: Pre-slash Newt/Thomas

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't own, don't bother to sue - this is slash but don't bash.

The sun bore down on them, in that strange orange colour that seemed to cast the higher trees and tops of the walls in a pale orangish hue. It was fairly bright out, and with no clouds dotting the sky. Furthermore, it was hot, and with each jerky movement of the hoe digging into the soil, he could feel his energy wane. There wasn't even a breeze to help cool him down.

He didn't like being a track-hoe. Unwillingly, as if his eyes could control themselves, they moved over towards the walls that towered over them like a fierce barricade. The question was - was it keeping them in, or keeping everything else out? "Don't think about it, shank," comes a voice from behind him. The sounds of the hoes hitting the soil didn't stop for a single moment.

"Think about what?" Thomas turns, nose wrinkling as he wipes his wrist along his brow. It was one of Gally's goons, although he was a nicer fellow - so long as Gally himself wasn't around. The nameless boy breaths heavily through his nose and squints over at the brunette.

"Nevermind," he decides on saying. Maybe Thomas wasn't as subtle as he thought he was - did most people know that he intended to be a Runner, eventually? "Just finish yer job before Alby gets over here and hits us a new one." As if to prove his point, he continues to till the garden, moving backwards steadily while another track-hoe boy, much younger than them, perhaps thirteen, trembled along and threw seeds in every chance he got at a reasonable distance.

Thomas sighs and continues his work, muscles tightening uneasily as he continued to work. After a while of tilling the dark and rich soil, his back muscles coiled tightly enough for him to decide to stand upright, bending backwards enough to straighten it and - oh - it almost felt like his own piece of heaven. He rests his hands along the top of the hoe handle, and notices a shape approach them from a distance. From the awkward loping on the person, it was easily identifiable as Newt, Alby's second in command. Thomas raises a hand in greeting, a smile touching the corners of his face.

Newt offers a small smile of his own, even though his eyes look tired. "What are you doing slackin' off, greenbean?" he teases, running his hand up his face to brush his moistened locks out of his face.

Thomas bites the corner of his lip and shrugs. "Thought Alby was comin', not you."

"That's bloody rude, Tommy." Newt frowns, pretending to be offended. Or perhaps he was - sometimes it was hard to tell; he usually had such a stoic expression on his face. "You tellin' me that you don't want to see my face?" Thomas snorts in amusement before shaking his head. "Bloody rude, I tell ya," he huffs and shrugs. "Not likin' track-hoeing?" he asks, blinking at him in concern.

"No, not my type of thing," he thinks about asking Newt about being a runner, but instead bites his tongue. He knew it was a sensitive topic for the odd-accented boy, namely because he had since gained a limp during a running. "So why're you here instead of Alby?"

"Alby got in a bit of a mess with Gally," the blond frowns. He hobbles over towards where Thomas is, so that they aren't yelling at each other from across the field. "Thinkin' about putting him in the slammer for his behavior, apparently." Thomas whistles with a grimace and looks away to resume hoeing. They don't say much else for a while, and when they've finally tilled the field completely, he plops himself down on the grass and beckons for his friend to join him. Newt sits down, in that awkward manner he does, propping out his bad leg so alleviate the pressure.

Thomas frowns in concern for his comrade, "Are you okay?" He rests his wrists on his raised knees, which were folded out in front of him while he tried to get comfortable.

"Leg's just actin' up, that's all, Tommy," the older boy responds, blinking over at him - or at least he assumed so, because his hair kept flopping in front of his eyes. "Don't worry," he runs his knuckles along his upper lip, wiping the sweat from his skin. "It's bloody hot out, ain't it? Alby should've called for a break a while ago; I'm going to shucking melt."

The greenboy had the gall to laugh outright; although Newt didn't look too offended by the action. "That's because you're practically wearing a bunch of layers," the tanning boy rolls his eyes affectionately. "I think you should remove them." A half-choked laughing noise sounds from somewhere to their right, where the other track-hoes were resting. The lean boy's face lit itself on fire, as he suddenly realized the implication of his own choice of words. "I mean - well, don't go wearing a coat everyday, of course you'll sweat." He reaches out and runs his fingers through Newt's hair, who looks back at him with squinted eyes, "Plus it's also this mop of hair you've got."

"Excuse me?" Newt didn't sound offended; just surprised. Thomas leans back, before collapsing outright onto the grass. His body felt blessed by the comfort.

Thomas waves his hand lazily in the air, his stomach growling despite himself. It was sure to be nearly noontime - soon they could have lunch .. if Alby ever showed up and relieved them from their duty. Thomas looks over at Newt, who is still sitting with his leg thrown out in front of him and his other folded towards his knee. Newt couldn't have been older than eighteen - two years Thomas' senior -, but he didn't look it. His face, well, what could be seen anyways from the fringe that overhung his brow, was square and angular but not overly so, because he's still fairly lean and lanky. His mop of blond hair was usually swept back behind his ears before flopping back into his face. He's tanned, heavily so, as if he's spent his whole life working in the Glades. He's stunning, in his own right. Thomas turns his head away when he realizes what he's just thought. "It's just your hair," he decides, swallowing thickly. Thomas actually likes Newt's hair, messy but in a way that doesn't seem knotted and as if no matter how it happens it'll always be that way. He actually wanted to run his fingers through the golden locks and press his lips to his - Woah, there, Thomas. You definitely have heatstroke if you're thinking that about your friend.

"My hair? What about it?" Newt's brows furrow, and he subconsciously raises his hand to touch it.

"Why is it so long?" The younger boy blurts, words spilling out from his throat before he can stop them. "Besides, they're probably why you're so hot." He feels a flush creep along his neck and ears as he suddenly realizes the implication of his words. The boy from earlier who had laughed before wasn't very successful in trying to stifle his laughter now. "You should cut it."

"It's kind of hard to cut your own hair, Tommy," Newt frowns, but it seems like he's considering the idea.

"Well, I'd cut it for you." The second in command leans back, tilting his head to get a better look at Thomas, hair falling beyond his t-shirt and even wisping along his back, exposing his long neck, forcing Thomas to choke down a swallow. "Do you have scissors?"

"No, just knives," he hums in response, eyes still narrowed as he watches Thomas squirm under his gaze. "Will you really cut my hair?"

He considers the proposition, "If you'll let me."

Newt's expression softens in consideration before he nods, "Sure. Let's go grab a knife, then." Thomas rolls onto his knees, ignoring when his shirt hikes up for a moment, and fumbles to his feet. Newt had already gotten to his feet, surprisingly, and had shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes trained on the shorter boy. Newt averts his gaze when he seems to realize that Thomas was looking at him, but when he seems to realize that he had no reason to avert his gaze, he looks back.

"D'you think," Thomas pauses while he tries to think of the cook's name. "Frypan would mind giving us a knife?"

Newt considers it while they walk towards the dining area, "Well, he might consider it unsanitary but it's not like we can use much else, can we?" He shoots the freckled boy a nervous smile. "He might reconsider if I ask him though - you've only been here for a few days." Thomas considers Newt's words before he nods finally. Newt smiles, a small and gentle upcurve of his lips that brightens his expression in a graceful manner before he hurries off towards where the cook was getting lunch prepared. Thomas awkwardly waits there, nodding in greeting to a few baggers that cross his path, each of them shooting him a lingering look before they resume their watch duty. It takes a few minutes, but Newt returns victorious, wielding a knife with startling expertise as he lopes over, holding in his other hand a small partially full bag. At Thomas' questioning eyes, he explains, "Well, can't exactly let the extra hair just fall to the ground, that ain't right. We've got to toss this out anyways after, so why not?"

"I guess," Thomas shrugs, nodding in agreement. He jabs a thumb over towards a secluded area, with a rock for one of them to perch on. He had noticed it along the way here, and they couldn't exactly steal a chair that another member would be needing soon enough, anyways. "Why not over there?"

"If you think that's the best spot."

Newt follows after Thomas at a surprisingly even pace, never once lagging behind, their strides even even though Newt's is a bit more of a shuffle and jump. Thomas finds himself getting lost while watching his friend's gait, a frown pursing his lips before Newt coughs, drawing his attention. Newt smiles at him and sits cross-legged in front of the rock, leaving the smooth grey stone for Thomas so he could have better purchase and not accidentally mess it up too badly. "I know I'm pretty, but your staring is distracting," he says kindly, resting his back against the rock.

Thomas rolls his eyes, although he feels a fierce burning in his face, "Not my fault you're so -" he makes a hand motion and Newt has the audacity to let out a breathless laugh. The brunette walks over and taps Newt's side with his foot, and the blond obediently moves, allowing for Thomas to sit on the rock and position his legs on either side of the second in command. "You really don't mind me doing this?" he asks, and Newt nods, and reaches over his shoulder to hand Thomas the knife and bag. "Okay."

Setting the bag on his lap, he tangles his fingers in Newt's hair, careful to not accidentally stab him in the head. He takes a long moment to appreciate the silky smoothness of Newt's hair, running his fingers through the blond strands, hearing a content murmur coming from the boy beneath him. "You're like a cat," he blurts out, voice quiet, and he scratches into Newt's scalp, enjoying the way that the blond leans into the touch, letting the shorter boy have complete control.

"Hm," Newt seems to ponder the statement, and Thomas could tell by the next words he says that he's probably smiling, "Cats are really adorable, so, thanks, shank."

Thomas smiles despite himself, running his hands out of Newt's hair and he examines the ends. He adjusts the knife in his grip and tries to steady his hand, trying to decide on where to cut it. "Okay, now hold still, Newt." Newt shifts his position but nods quickly, and remains still otherwise.

Thomas slides the blade through the blond's hair, watching some strands fall down to his lap and litter the ground. Pulling back his hand, he tosses the lock of hair into the bag, eyes sliding over to where he could see Newt bounce his fingers on his lap. He takes a small lock of Newt's hair and slides the knife through it. He doesn't quite know what he's doing, but he hasn't maimed the second in command just yet so that's at least something. He definitely knows that he wasn't a hairdresser in the past life, though.

It's a bit tiring, trying to make the ends even, and ends up sticking his tongue between his lips, biting down as he tried to focus. "Okay, turn your head this way," he says, and carefully crooks Newt's head a certain way. He's careful, especially when he has to cut the fringe above his eyebrows. Thomas blinks, looking at Newt's face when the older boy smiles suddenly, a shy curve of the lips distracting him. His hand wavers just enough before he adds, "Almost done." He cuts the rest of the blond's hair and runs his hands through it, grabbing any loose strands then deposits them into the bag that Newt had brought. "There." He smiles, and leans back.

Newt blinks at him with startling brown eyes, a warm chocolate compared to Thomas' dark hazel, and without the thick hair shadowing his face, his eyes are more visible than before. Thomas realizes with a start that Newt's face was very open, and he was a bit easy to read emotions in his eyes. He looks tired, but not unhappy. His thin lips quirk up into a shy smile, "What're you looking at, shank? D'you think you did a bad job?" he teases, although there's a flash of worry in his eyes. Subconsciously, Newt raises his hands to his head, and he messes with his hair, frowning despite himself while he felt what Thomas did. He swallows thickly when he sees Newt try to fiddle with it, his fingers digging into his blond tresses before he sets his hands down, and his hair flops across his brow, and oh no. Newt looked really good with short hair. The longer that Thomas didn't respond, the more stressed Newt looked, with his eyebrows curling downwards in a very expressive manner.

"No, it looks fine - hot, even," he hears himself say, and hastily he stands up, moving loose strands of the cut hair into the bag and he wipes the knife off on his jeans, avoiding Newt's imploring gaze. "I mean," he pauses, and reconsiders what he said before. "I meant to say, you should be less likely to get hot in this heat now with short hair." He nods to himself, as if it made sense. Newt's eyebrows are still quirked in a confused manner, as if he's contemplating something, but Thomas decides that he's had enough and brushes past him. "C'mon, we can't miss out on Frypan's dinner, now, can we?"

"Good that," Newt says, and walks after him, meeting up with Thomas quite quickly. If their hands brush on the way back, well, they didn't really mention it.

"Oh, there's Thomas and - Newt?" Chuck sounds confused, half-standing from his position at the lunch bench. Newt raises his hand in greeting, looking a bit sheepish. Thomas takes the moment to duck out of the dining area and tosses the bag into the burn pile, and hands Frypan the knife back, who smiles appreciatively and nods. Thomas thanks him as he takes two plates of pasta from him and heads towards the tables.

"Woah, lookin' good, Newt, not that you don't anyways," Minho's voice picks up from the lunch table when Newt sits down next to him, taking a brief moment from shovelling in food to wolf whistle. The dark haired boy's eyebrows wiggle, "Are you trying to look good for that green girl?" Thomas straddles the bench and passes Newt a plate, and sets his own in front of him.

"Something like that," Newt says, turning his warm gaze to Thomas for a moment. He feels his cheeks warm with the slight implication and he ducks his head, taking the moment to shovel in some food. "Thanks, Tommy," Newt adds, his hand reaching out across the table to touch Thomas' for a brief moment.

"Yeah, no problem, Newt," Thomas says, dropping his fork and offering a smile. Minho's knowing look flitted between them before he muttered under his breath about 'stupid shanks' before he resumed eating. The conversation changes slightly to if Newt would keep his hair that short. If Newt smiled at Thomas and suggested he cut his hair again, well, who was Thomas to argue?

Besides, Newt looked really nice with his hair short.