A/N: so hi, it's been a while! here's something i posted on ao3 but thought you kiddos might like too! listen to 'are you with me' by nilu for the full effect and thank me later x
Thomas believes that, when things aren't falling into place, he should make them fall into place. A little shove here or there. A forced twist or a directed turn. An entire shifting of events until they seem right. A moral puzzle.
But, there are times when he has the wrong pieces or when, no matter how hard he pushes or how many combinations he tries, it just won't fit together. There are times when it all fits, but the end picture makes no sense, like it's all been printed wrong. There are times when the pieces are out of his reach.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
The two words circle through his mind. He hangs on to them, desperately, willing them to be true. He needs them to be true.
Not yet. This can't happen yet. Not now. Give me more time. Give him more time.
His heart pounds violently in his chest. It hurts him. The way it seems to constrict, more and more with each beat, wrapping itself around each of his lungs, squeezing them so tightly that breathing feels impossible. It feels wrong- so wrong. All of it. He feels as though somebody's taken his body and shaken it up, shuffling through his organs so that nothing is in the right place. The world feels much the same. Shaken, rearranged. Wrong.
But, no matter how bad he feels-- no matter how gut-wrenchingly sick this fear is making him- none of it compares to Newt.
Newt.
He's always been the anchor to Thomas' admittedly unpredictable boat. Wherever they've been and whatever they've been through, Newt has been there to keep him grounded --every time, without fail. If Thomas feels lost, Newt brings him home.
Newt grunts as he stumbles a little, so Thomas tightens his grip around his friend's waist, digging his fingers into Newt's jacket. Not yet. It feels like Newt's becoming heavier and Thomas isn't sure if that's due to his own strength failing or that Newt's legs are giving out. Neither is good. Nothing is good. None of this is good. It's all wrong.
They're in the Last City. Thomas has his arm around Newt's waist because without it Newt would fall. The Flare virus had never been kind to anyone, but Thomas has the bitter thought that it's being especially cruel to Newt. It's let him come all this way, helped him rescue their friend Minho from WCKD and escape the building just in time for it to take over his body almost entirely. Almost, because it hasn't taken full effect yet. It hasn't taken his whole brain, just part of it. It's running him down, bit by bit, one cell at a time, exhausting him before it finally takes charge.
All around them, the city is in chaos. Fire barges its way through buildings and streets, filling the air with a thick, suffocating smoke. The sounds of gunshots and screams surround them wherever they go. Hell on Earth.
Thomas pauses and turns to look around them, pulling Newt with him, not daring to lose grip for even a moment. Which way was it? He clings to the fabric of Newt's jacket like it's the only thing holding him together. Which way? Where are they going?
There. Through that building. Towards the station.
He grunts. Each second demands more strength than the last. Newt's left leg drags limply along the concrete behind them. Dead weight. Whatever fight he had left is diminishing quickly but he just needs to hold on. Just a little longer; they're only waiting on one thing.
Grab the serum and get back to us as soon as you can.
Those were the words he'd said. Minho would do it. He'd be back with the serum. The serum would buy more time. Minho would be back before...
