Newt still remembers the way Percival's skin feels against his. He still remembers the natural heat it emanated. He still could smell Percival's cologne on his own clothes as the memory of their shared morning kiss was just equally brightly imprinted in his mind beside the many other memories of the man he loves.
His wand is clutched hard in his hand. However, his fingers are trembling and his vision is blurring, the blood, dripping down from the cut on his forehead, making it go red.
He hears noises from all directions, screams particularly, but also cracking sounds of buildings collapsing and he feels how the earth beneath him just gives in.
Newt manages to apparate at a safe distance and watches as the pavement he had just been on cracks, blocks of it falling into the tunnels underneath with loud thuds.
He brings his free hand to his eyes and cleans his vision of the red sticky liquid. He doesn't have time to lose, he has to find Percival in this chaos.
Feeling unsteady on his feet, Newt pauses after the few steps he took and instead looks frantically around him, in hope to see the familiar two-toned hair. He doesn't spot Percival, at least he's not nearby and it makes Newt wonder just how far away from each other they were thrown by that blow.
Someone bumps into him and he stumbles. His body is beyond exhausted of all the things happening right there, right now. He breathes in and out steadily, trying to come back to the reality at hand.
His eyes catch flashes of the curses and spells flying back and forth and he quickly realizes that the street they were peacefully walking on just moments ago became the scene of cruelty and unscrupulous murder.
Wizards and witches battle against each other in an endless exchange of deadly curses, some of which miss their targets while others hit either a shield or an unprotected body, and when the latter happens, Newt shivers at the strangled screams he hears, at the image of utter shock and pure, primal fear in person's eyes before they go dulll, the body falling limply on the cold pavement.
Newt drags his feet while his eyes are searching among the wizards, the lying unmoving bodies, for anything, really. He keeps muttering Percival's name like a prayer under his breath.
He dodges some curses, other he paries with the skill of a warrior, his eyes never stopping searching for that particular person, whose name still lefts his trembling lips which started to taste like iron.
Blood floods into his mouth and Newt starts to feel a wrecking pain in his lower abdomen. His suit is soaked there and he lowers his free of wand hand to touch. The liquid is hot and sticky, the same as the one he wiped off his eyes earlier.
He curses silently under his breath. He had been wounded and didn't even observe it. Concluding that it happened because of all the adrenaline pumping through his system due to the situation he's in, Newt falls to his knees and rips the fabric of his clothing around the wound, casting a healing spell. He had been through worse previously.
The blood stops painting his clothes further and he gets back on his feet. The hell around him unleashes when a second blow follows. There are more screaming people, more sounds of crashing and more dead bodies covering the remaining of the street's pavement.
Newt doesn't know what is going on, and if he's being sincere, he doesn't really care. Everything he cares about in this moment is Percival, who still is somewhere there and Newt's eyes stubbornly refuse to find him.
As he keeps walking, something makes him stop in his tracks and his eyes widen. He wants to shout at the man, who's just steps away from being hit by a curse, but he's too late and the man, the familiar broad back is hit and Newt watches in horror how the place the man was in seconds ago explodes. Furious flames envelope the entire area and Newt plainly forgets how to breathe.
He runs, stumbles, falls, gets to his feet and runs again. It couldn't be happening for real, could it?