A/N: 'I'm gonna concentrate on my studies' turned into 'Imma write an angsty short oneshot' real quick. Hope you enjoy anyway!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Maze Runner series, surprising, I know. All possible typos are mine, though.
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Newt did his best to look at Thomas, but his vision kept blurring in and out of focus, the outlines shaking. He tried to make the image more clear, building up on his memories of Thomas from before, but his mind was slipping too. Grasping memories was like holding on to a bunch of slippery strings that kept falling through his fingers until he was left with incoherent events and unfamiliar faces. It was hell, every second of it, and he was only sinking deeper and deeper down into darkness.
Why couldn't Thomas understand that? Each moment he was awake, each moment he was aware it made him want to claw his brains out. The disease was overtaking his mind faster than he'd expected. Bloody flare. Was it called flare? It probably was, wasn't it. He couldn't remember, couldn't think. His mind was a maze, the same Maze that he'd wanted to get out of for so long, and he couldn't escape this time. Newt's thoughts kept running around, some ending in dead ends and some spinning in circles, never getting anywhere.
"Please, Tommy. Please."
If he'd just pull the trigger, just pull the bloody trigger and shoot Newt and be done with it. They both knew where this was going. Newt was losing his sanity, losing himself piece by piece, losing Tommy. Losing everything he'd ever considered important in his life. Maybe, if things had turned out differently...
If they'd never been subjects for the experiment, if the Maze hadn't existed, would Newt still have met Thomas? He liked to think so. He liked to think that, in a better world where there wasn't flares or mazes, in a world where everyone was alive and well, they would've had more time. That was all Newt wanted. Just more bloody time to figure it out. If there'd been more time, would they have turned out to be something?
He'd thought about it, often. All those words he'd left unsaid, all the chances he'd missed, Newt was regretting it all. With just a few more days, even hours, he could've made a difference. He could've at least died in peace.
It was too late, now. Everything was messed up, twisted around. In this reality Thomas was pointing a gun at him, hands shaking. Or maybe it was Newt who was shaking. Or the world. Everything was turning again, and Newt just wanted for it to be over. He'd never believed in life after death, but if there was such a thing, maybe he'd meet Tommy there again. Maybe then, finally, they could talk it all through. I love you, ya bloody shank, he'd say, and then they'd both laugh and cry and there would be no more itching in his brain and it would all be alright. It'd all be alright and no one would suffer.
The loud bang of a gun being fired rang through his head, before everything settled into the long awaited silence. And darkness, nice darkness, coaxing him into death until there was nothing left but bitter unsaid words that soon disappeared too as everything slipped away.
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