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Newt is fading. He feels it in the way he moves; his muscles feel stretched to capacity, his skin is numb, and his bones seem to ache more deeply and stronger with each passing second. This is it. This is really it.
The heat is something unbearable, like nothing he’s ever experienced. His fragile mind flickers back to moments in the Scorch. He recalls the way the sand shimmered before his eyes, like rippling water, a sight too good to be true. His mind is doing it again now; he’s filled with this overwhelming feeling that nothing bad will come of this; that he’ll just let it happen and go quietly, without a fuss. He knows that hope is his own mirage.
He remembers how the heat of the desert had felt on his skin and how aptly they’d named the place ‘Scorch’. It had burned, dry, crisp heat, like they were ants under a magnifying glass in the sunlight, frying. He feels it again now, only it’s within him. He feels it moving, like a rushing river of hot lava, destroying everything it touches. His own blood feels corrosive in his veins.
There’s one thing that stops him from screaming out and giving in to it all.
Tommy.
Thomas has his arm around Newt, practically dragging him through the Last City. In a physical sense, they’ve done everything they need to do except get out. It’s the last step of their long, disrupted plan. Get out, and get the serum to Newt. Save Newt.
The plan changes again: bring the serum back to us. That’s Minho’s job, under Gally’s protection. It’s the only way now; time is running out fast.
Among all of this, Thomas has realised something devastatingly true: he’s in love. That would be perfect and wonderful and so inspiringly hopeful if it wasn’t for just one awful detail.
Thomas is in love with Newt.
It’s some cruel, ill-timed realisation, and it makes Thomas furious. His entire being pulses with anger, driving adrenaline through him like his life depends on it. Anger at the world keeps him going. This heartbreakingly powerful twist of fate is giving him strength that he didn’t know he’d had and he manages to drag Newt along with him, envisioning Minho coming back with the serum any second now.
It’s not long before the situation changes again, and Newt is no longer in control. He feels a change, a clear switch in his head, where it no longer is in command of his own body. An extended, carefully orchestrated spasm of muscle that forces his body to attack Thomas while he watches from inside, helplessly.
It’s brutal. Thomas is pushed to the ground, struggling to keep Newt off him.
Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him, they both tell themselves.
But one of them hurts the other. Throwing him to the ground again and again, wrestling for control.
And Newt’s hopes are squashed. His mirage flickers away and becomes empty desert. This isn’t the way he wanted it to go.
And to stop it, he has a moment of control. The switch flicks back to his side. Newt pulls out a gun. The barrel touches his temple.
“No!” Thomas screams, knocking the weapon away. He’s struggling again as Newt loses control, but still refuses to hurt him. Not when there’s a chance that Newt’s still in there, seeing and feeling all of this.
Newt watches on, internally screaming at himself to get back, to stop hurting Thomas, to give up. He hates that he didn’t raise the weapon faster; he should’ve just done it before Thomas had a chance to stop him, the selfless prick. But, the way he’d raised his arm had felt like lifting concrete, requiring strength that he barely had. He’d been fighting to keep control. Maybe he could never have moved any faster.
Stop!
His hands have pulled the knife from his pocket, bringing it down on Thomas, driving it towards his chest.
Thomas is pushing back against Newt, screaming at him not to do it.
Newt, on the inside, is screaming the same thing, trying desperately to pull back on the knife, against himself. It works a little, but not enough, as the knife hits Thomas’ shirt and slowly digs into his chest.
And Newt wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. He wants to block his ears, but he can’t. He wants to be far away, anywhere but here, but this is his body and he’s the one doing this to Thomas.
Thomas screams. The pain sends some new desperation through him, like a bolt of lightening, causing him to act against his own wishes. He punches Newt, sending him back across the concrete floor, out of harm’s way for now.
Newt wants to cheer at the sight of Thomas defending himself. It’s not something the boy is good at. Newt knows him well; he’s caring, determined and protective, but never of himself.
Defend yourself, Newt pleads. Leave me and go. Don’t let me hurt you. Tommy, don’t break my heart before I go.
Because, yes, Newt loves Thomas back. Not that Thomas would know, because Newt’s never told him; it’s not important. But now, there’s a little bit of selfishness left belonging to Newt, because he doesn’t want to see this. He wants it to be over before they’re both broken.
The knife is back, swinging at Thomas again. He’s up on his feet, dodging each swipe as it flies past, stepping back each time, dreading the moment it collides, biding time, waiting for his friends to return and save them both from this nightmare.
Swipe, swipe, swipe .
They’re close now. Newt can see the tears on Thomas’ cheeks. It’s too much. He’s caused too much pain. It has to stop; this has to be it.
Newt gains control.
There’s a sickening thud as the two of them collide, the knife somewhere in the middle, unknowingly causing a rupture between them that wouldn’t be fixed. That last swipe had divided them, well and truly.
Thomas pulls away slowly, hoping that the reason he didn’t feel the blade was because he was so numb with this fear.
But it sits there, embedded where Newt’s heart should be.
They share a moment, staring into each others’ eyes. Both of them know but neither can believe it.
Thomas’ vision becomes foggy, blurred by tears as he stares at Newt, hanging on for as long as he can, wondering when time will run out, willing it not to.
Newt stares back. He doesn’t feel it, the knife in his chest. Instead, it felt as though he’d been hit with a powerful tidal wave of relief; it’s over. He did it. There’s no more to come.
He takes a breath and he knows, by some instinct, that it’s his last.
There’s nothing left to lose, his mind tells him.
And it’s right. So, with his last breath, he gives Thomas the most important piece of himself.
“I love you.”
Thomas’ immediate response is to grip Newt’s arms even tighter and he resists the urge to shake him, to get him to say more. What does he mean? He loves me? How can he love me? How can he choose to tell me now?
And Thomas knows he only has limited time, so his mind flickers through what to say, how to respond, what to do, how to make this right?
But if Newt wants to say any more, he can’t, as he feels his chest tighten and lungs refuse to inflate again. His tired body finally gives out and he falls to the floor, slowed only by Thomas’ tight grip.
“No, no, no!” Thomas cries. “No, Newt! No, no, no, no, no!” He’s openly crying -- sobbing -- as the thought strikes him that they could’ve been more. He could’ve told Newt. Newt could’ve known how fucking important he was. He wants to scream it now and hear it echo through the abandoned streets, all the way across the city. He wants to tell Newt now that he’s loved, that Thomas loves him. He wants Newt to be here. Forever.
But Newt’s gone.
So, instead of screaming, Thomas heaves out a sob, squeezed Newt’s hands in both of his. “I’m sorry,” he says, choking on his words. “I’m so sorry, Newt.”
As Newt’s breathing stops, his colour fades, and the light leaves his eyes, he hears four words floating through his mind, followed by a single gunshot.
“I love you too.”