Work Text:
There’s a point, after you’ve fallen, when gravity takes over. Freefall is the term they use to describe it, when your body is at the mercy of that downward force alone, only interrupted by the introduction of an opposing upward force -- enough drag from a parachute or, alternatively, the ground.
Newt’s body, distant from him as it may seem, is in freefall. Different to a physical fall this time, with the wind in his ears and the rushing sights of ivy and concrete. No . This is something else entirely.
His skin is clammy and he feels the beads of sweat running from his forehead to his nose and cheeks, like misguided tears. The tightness in his chest is growing now, faster and stronger, and coughing no longer brings him relief. He’d be moving easier if it weren’t for the heat that seems to run through him, burning his veins and, worst of all, igniting his brain with some ungodly pulsing flame that has him itching to tear his own hair out to cool himself down.
This is freefall without a parachute in sight.
And, in some twisted bolt of realisation, he realises that Minho will be proximate to the impact again. Witness to yet another of Newt’s downward plummets-- this one being the last.
It’s Minho’s face that Newt sees when he looks up, searching for guidance. The Last City is a mess of smoke and sound (too much for Newt to even consider, so he drowns it all out with the view of the ground beneath his feet and the loud vibration, pounding in his ears). When he chances that look up, Minho’s eyes are laced with concern, watching Newt’s every move as, somehow, he and Thomas manoeuvre Newt’s uncoordinated body through the streets.
Newt knows it’s pointless now. They saved Minho; they did what they came here to do. There was no point in all of his friends dying in the process of getting Newt out too, not when he’d be living the rest of his short life biding time on the serum, trying to prevent the inevitable.
The words leave his mouth with no sensation of speaking at all.
“Just leave me.”
He knows he’s spoken. He heard it. He’s sure of it, but nobody responds. He tries to say it again, but his throat is coated in some thick, mucousy filth that he knows is growing by the second, now dripping from his mouth. Speaking is no longer an easy feat, so he needs to save it for when he’s sure he’ll be heard.
Bright orange lights erupt in Newt’s vision, forcing his eyes closed. In the same instant, they’re all stumbling and suddenly there’s a hard surface underneath him and supporting his back. Newt frowns, trying to understand how he blinked and ended up seated on the floor with his friends crouched in front of him.
A loud roar from above draws his focus and he looks up to see a blurred, dark shape flying above the city. His mind pieces it together much slower than usual, but he comes to the conclusion that the Berg has arrived for them. For his friends. Not for him anymore.
Newt knows now that if he tries to stand he won’t be able to. His limbs hold so much weight that it’s a wonder they’re not sinking into the ground. He can’t support himself and he’s only going to drag his friends down with him if they stay. This has to be it.
Thomas is saying something that sounds suspiciously like “we gotta go”, which sounds like a good plan until Thomas starts pulling him up off the ground.
Stupid bloody selfless Thomas still wants to drag Newt’s lifeless body along with him. Not on Newt’s watch.
Newt shrugs him off and uses another precious breath of virus-coated air to speak. “Just go without me, man.”
The thick ooze in his throat builds up with each word. So much so that by the time he’s got the last word out, he’s spluttering on it, coughing it up to no avail. The force behind it sends his head spinning, stars crashing through his vision, patterns darting across his eyes and playing havoc with his reality.
It scares him, that sudden loss of sight and perception. His friends were right there in front of him and now he can’t see their faces, only blurred shapes and stars. It sends him into a panic, desperately hoping they’ll return. He wasn’t ready. That can’t have been the last time he saw them.
The sound he finally latches onto is a voice. Thomas . They haven’t left him yet.
“ Minho. You gotta run ahead. Grab the serum, and get back to us as soon as you can.”
The words are crisp and clear in Newt’s ears and he knows exactly why the world lets him hear it:
It’s all ending now. This is the freefall right before he hits the ground. This is goodbye.
And Newt couldn’t forgive himself for saying goodbye without acknowledging what Minho’s done for him-- who Minho is to him.
His vision clears again.
So, with a shaking hand, he reaches out and grabs Minho, mustering up the most strength he can to hold him there for one last moment.
“Thank you,” he says, as clearly as he can through the tar in his throat. “Thank you, Minho.”
Minho’s always known Newt better than most. It’s why the past six months without him have been so hard. And, because Minho knows Newt, he can recognise the freefall. It’s going to end one way or another. He knows now it’s up to the parachute or the ground. It’s all ending now.
“Hey. You just hang on. You hear me?”
And Minho wants to be the parachute to control the fall, so he turns and runs.
Newt doesn’t want to, but he watches him leave. It’s all ending now.
So Newt lets go.
The freefall is finally over.