Newt staggered behind Minho and Thomas, his breathing heavy and labored. He wheezed through bated breath, his chest tight and constricted. He couldn't help but feel like he was slowing them down. His pace gradually began to slow as he found it harder and harder to keep up with them. Fire danced and traced all over his skin, the intense heat corroding his insides. His forearm pulsed, white hot agony spreading outwards in waves from the bite, infection coursing through his veins, slowly deteriorating his body and eating away at his sanity.
The group briefly stopped, pausing at the edge of an alleyway, gunfire echoing in the near distance. Thomas shot Newt a concerned look, eyes laced with sympathy. "Newt, how are you feeling?" The brunette had subconsciously been watching the blond slowly lag further and further behind, enough to the point he had drifted out of Thomas' peripheral vision. Thomas' eyes couldn't help but linger on the growing, dark veins of Flare beginning to spider up Newt's neck.
"Pretty terrible." Newt admitted honestly, his voice raspy and rough, Minho and Thomas could hear the exhaustion that leaked from it. Newt shuddered as another chill wracked his bones, tremors shaking and possessing his whole body. Lately the trembling had consumed all that he was. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, teeth sinking deeply into flesh, it taking all of his effort to just remain standing upright. His head swam and shadows seemed to dance around him, tumbling and reaching out at him, threatening to drag him to their realm of darkness. He almost reached back.
He frantically shook his head, trying to clear away his swirling, fading, vision. Everything seemed to move to and fro, everything beginning to blur together. "L- Let's go." He called, taking initiative, his voice faltering. He took a few experimental steps forward, swaying horribly, each foot fumbling behind the other. Sweat drenched his face as his features contorted into one of pain and concentration.
Minho shoots Thomas a look as they watch Newt continue to stagger forward, his hand heavily using the walls of the building as support.
Suddenly, the next thing Newt knows, he's on the ground, his knees suddenly buckling beneath his weight. He tries to get up, but his legs fail him. They're limp and trembling, giving and collapsing on him the second he tries to climb to his feet. He throws his head back as he glares into the dark midnight sky, the twinkling city lights doing nothing to suppress his urge to scream. He purses his lips and he can feel hot persistent tears stinging his eyes. He wants to cry, to cry out all that he is, to wash away his insecurities.
"Damn it!" He mutters under his breath, barely managing to bring it above a whisper. He's frustrated that his body's betraying him. His fists are clenched so tightly, his fingernails are digging into his palms, carving sharp semi-circles into his skin.
His chest heaves with difficulty as he struggles to keep his lungs going in a steady, rhythmic pattern. His breathing is shallow and bated, each breath a war fought all on its own. His chest is tight and it feels like a boa constrictor is contracting around his lungs, squeezing every last drop of air out of him. He's suffocating on the oxygen that he's desperately trying to take in all at once, but simultaneously drowning in it like it's all too much.
He had known he was infected, he'd known that the virus was already corrupting his system. He just refused to admit it. He'd known for weeks before he'd finally mustered up the confidence to show Thomas the root of it. He knew he should've let Thomas know sooner, he knew he shouldn't of hidden the bite, but he just hadn't been able to bring himself to tell the brunette until it was already too late. He just physically couldn't bring himself to say anything sooner. Maybe it was because of his arrogance with mix of his pride, or maybe it was foolish optimism, or maybe it had been due to the cold, hard, fear that lingered in his heart.
For the longest time, he'd managed to live the last few weeks with blind optimism spurting in his chest; He'd believed he was immune, foolishly believing that the Flare would burn itself out, that the virus would run its course and then he'd be back to normal. He kept living and believing the lie, believing that the gross spidery veins would disappear, that the pain would clear away all on its own. He still kept believing he was an immune, despite how each and every day, his condition continued to decline, getting worse and worse. Then there was the crippling fear of rejection and abandonment. He wasn't ready to die, not yet. Even if he was on death's doorstep, he didn't want to be alone, trapped in an endless void of regrets.
After everything they'd been through, the Maze, the Trials, and everything else in between, he couldn't picture a moment without Thomas and Minho by his side. He had known them practically his whole life, for as far as he was concerned. That's why he had been adamant about going, adamant about being on the frontlines for the rescue. He needed to see Minho, to see his bright smiling face, jabbing sass and jokes to lighten the mood. And he knew Thomas had been just as deprived as he had been. Newt couldn't even remember the last time they had laughed, really laughed, since Minho had been gone.
After they'd found Minho, they had embraced each other so tightly, with their arms wrapped around each other, everything but their laughter nonexistent. Right then it had just been Newt, Minho, and Thomas. In that moment, nothing else had mattered, they were on their own plane of existence, everything else around them just a dull lifeless space of desolate nonexistence. Their lungs had filled with the oxygen they had been deprived of for months, their happiness practically contagious as laughter seemed to bubble out of their throats. Warmth had seemed to flutter and blossom in their chests, like a million fireflies drawing away the darkness and ebbing it in light.
Newt didn't want to give that up. He wanted more moments like that between them, where his chest was light, and was free of this tightness that bound him. He craved their warm reassuring touch, longing for the feel of Thomas' rough, calloused hand in his own and Minho's firm, but gentle hand, devoid of its usual callouses, in his other. He wanted to intertwine his fingers with theirs, hands clasped so tightly, they'd never be separated again, so tightly, none of his demons could slip through the cracks. He wasn't ready to let go.
He wanted to live out his days with the runners, living out each and every day to the fullest with his pack. But no matter how hard he pushed himself to try to keep up with them, he kept stumbling and getting caught in the dust. Their receding forms had just continued to grow further and further away from him. He had called and reached out, but it was like his voice was garbled and distorted, almost as if he were underwater and drowning. It was selfish, but he was scared out of his mind. He didn't want to be left behind. He didn't want to lose himself.
"Newt! Newt can hear me? Focus!" Thomas says, anxiety laced in his tone as he gently shook the blond's fragile and weak frame. Newt's dark coffee brown eyes were dull and clouded in haze, staring back at Thomas with an unfocused, clouded over look.
Newt was snapped out of his trance by a firm, but not intendedly painful, slap to the face. His eyes shift upwards to meet the brunette's worried expression, his dark brows slightly furrowed and his lips pulled into a thin tight line. Newt can practically feel the anxiety radiating off of the two runners. The blond gives a weak, subtle nod to show that he's listening.
"Just a little further." Thomas says gently, draping one of the blond's arms around his neck, as he hoists him to his feet. Newt's almost convinced he has vertigo with how suddenly his view shifts upwards. "We're almost there. We just have to meet up with the others. Just stay with me."
Newt gives another nod, barely there. He's focusing on Thomas' voice, holding onto it and begging the sound to not slip through his fingers. He uses it guide himself through the maze of Flare, to keep from losing himself entirely. He suddenly finds himself caught on how cool Thomas' skin feels, how soothing it is against the undoubtedly scorching fever he's harboring.
The brunette briefly stumbles trying to carry Newt's weight and his own, the blond's weight just a little too much for his weary body. Seeing Thomas struggle, Minho quickly rushes to the opposite side of the blond, taking Newt's other arm and draping it around him, easing the process. They progress forward slowly, having to stop every couple of feet to readjust Newt.
Thomas curses under his breath as they're met by a mob of rebellion and a line up of WCKD soldiers. Gunshots fire and crackle through the air, sprays of bullets being blindly fired with reckless abandon. He flinches as an explosion wracks a nearby building, the force of it seemingly shaking the whole foundation of the city. The smell of gunpowder and the metallic, bitter scent of copper permeates strongly through the atmosphere with the faint, but undeniable whiff of charred flesh. The overpowering stench is almost nauseating, the mingled scents burning their nostrils. He and Minho simultaneously, instantly drop and crouch behind a barricade.
Newt limply collapses like a rag doll against the, less than stable, wall of the barricade. He's barely able to keep himself from falling over onto Minho. He's convinced that he'll never be able to stand again, that he'll crystallize here on the spot. He retches, the acrid taste of bile rising from the back of his throat. A shudder overtakes him as his stomach ties and twists itself into knots, vigorously lurching forward. Newt can't suppress it as he violently begins to hack up blood, his chest rattling at the effort to expel the virus that corrupts his veins. His mouth is coated in a bitter, coppery taste, an assimilation of scarlet and inky black, spilling from the corners of his lips.
The blond wheezes, eyes squeezed shut, his breaths shaky and harsh. His whole thin frame trembles as the fit dies down. His companions' names are a mutter on his lips as he desperately reaches and feels for their hands, his grip tight and almost vice-like, near pain inducing, as he locks his own quivering hands with theirs. He needed something steady, an anchor, a lifeline, anything, to keep him from drifting and fading.
Minho lets out a sigh, pursing his lips as he takes his hand and gently brushes blond locks from Newt's forehead, the damp strands clinging from sweat. He gives Newt's hand a firm, but gentle, reassuring squeeze. "How long has he been like this?" Minho asks quietly, his tone grim as his eyes focus on Newt's pale face, the blond's complexion almost paper-white. He can't help but trace the stark contrasting veins and the rivulets of blood with his eyes.
"I don't know." Thomas answers, sulking. "I'm guessing he was infected a couple weeks ago with how bad he is now." Thomas bites on his bottom lip in worry, teeth inadvertently sinking into it and drawing blood.
Thomas and Minho both share a knowing look, both thinking it, but refusing to say it aloud. Dread settles heavy in their stomachs, like a cluster of stones. As much as they hate to admit it, they're both painfully aware that if Newt doesn't receive some sort of treatment soon, they're going to lose him to the Flare.
With renewed urgency and vigor, Thomas and Minho practically drag Newt, as they desperately scramble to get out of the crossfire. By this point, Newt has become more despondent, now not even trying to attempt to shuffle and fumble his feet in step with the other two. His limbs weigh him down like lead, like someone had replaced his organs with concrete, like his blood was solid and frozen over.
Stumbling and managing to get Newt to the rendezvous point, the center of a plaza, Thomas and Minho, gently ease the blond onto a bench. Thomas and Minho stand assessing Newt, physically watching as the Flare seemed to taint the boy further, watching as piece by piece, Newt's humanity was slipping through the cracks of his fingers.
Suddenly Minho gasps dramatically and steps forward, his eyes bright and wide, shimmering with something hopeful, something promising in his eyes. There's a light tinge to his cheeks, but his words don't falter. "I have an idea..." He starts slowly, clearing his throat as he rolls the tension from his shoulders. He waits until both Thomas and Newt have their full attention on him. "So Thomas has antibodies that fight off the Flare, right?" He earns a slow, feeble nod from both of them. "So to cure Newt, you two just have to kiss."
He earns a confused look from Thomas, the brunette's brows furrowed, head cocked slightly to the side. "What?"
Newt stares back at Minho with the same puzzled expression, his mind still intact enough to piece together what Minho had just suggested.
"And I'll join in on the kiss 'cause then that's twice as many antibodies to save Newt—'cause y'know we're immunes." Minho continues, a bright smile stretched across his lips.
Thomas shifts uncomfortably, trying to act confident and casual, despite how his heart is his hammering against his ribcage. "Well, you- You know I'll do anything to save Newt." His cheeks burn crimson as he avoids making eye contact with either of the other Gladers.
Newt rolls his eyes, and sighs, though on the inside he fears he'll die from a heart attack. Kissing Thomas and Minho? Hell yes. He's a bit doubtful and skeptic of the functionality Minho's suggestion, but even if it doesn't cure him, he can die with no regrets. With great difficulty, he somehow manages to clamber to his feet, and he tries to keep his voice calm and collected. He laces his fingers around the collars of their shirts, pulling them close to him. "Just shut up and bloody kiss me you two."
Newt's lips first interlock with Thomas', the brunette's lips surprisingly soft and warm against his own. He can't help but question the peculiar, coppery, acrid, taste of blood that emanates from Thomas' lips, but rightly he doesn't care. He smirks under the kiss, wrapping his arms around Thomas' neck to dry to deepen it. He doesn't want this moment to end, never does he ever want this wonderfully warm feeling to dissipate. It was like a million butterflies were fluttering in his stomach, and he could feel warmth, a good fulfilling warmth, pulsing through his veins.
Minho pouts as he watches the two, his bottom lip protruding into a sulky pout. "Hey don't forget about me!" He calls, as he forces his way into the embrace. The action earning laughter bubbling from the trio's throats, seemingly clearing the heavy tension that hung in the air just mere moments before. The three then managed to lock lips, 'spreading antibodies' to the blond. Newt loves the feeling that courses through his veins, he loves the way it makes his fingers tingle, and the way it makes his heart flutter, the way it relieves the tightness of his chest and how it frees his lungs.
Minho's face lights up as he bursts into joyous laughter, locking the three of them in a tight embrace. "Look! The Flare, it's going away!" Minho cries, pressing their foreheads together. They watched as the dark, ominous branches of spider-like veins gradually began to retract, the virus slowly eliminating itself from Newt's system, the near cancerous, cells breaking themselves apart. They saw how his chest began to rise and fall much easier, how his breathing began to even out, how that look of concentrated pain seemed to be melting off of the blond's features.
"Looks like we won't need the serum after all." Thomas says happily in a matter-of-factly manner as he shoots a grin at the two of them.
Newt pulls away and gazes into the runners' eyes, a vulnerable sincerity in his next words. He wants to say so much more, but all he can manage without breaking into tears is a heartfelt, "Thank you."
A/N: What? What do mean The Death Cure didn't end like this? Anyways, this is based off of a Tumblr post I saw, so if you enjoyed this short little oneshot I threw together, please feel free to leave a favorite and a review.
-The~Candy~Craving~Demon