Chapter Thirty-Seven

The panic very nearly consumed him as he was thrown awake by the disastrous sound. He hurtled upright, gasping as his brain tried to compute what had happened. His head swung around, his senses flaring into a sharp and heightened state as he searched for danger. Newt grumbled plaintively in his sleep, his shoulder jerking harshly as he gasped out a pained groan. Somehow Thomas knew he'd been making the noises for a while. They'd been filtering through the uneasy doze he'd fallen into, hurting his heart even while he was asleep.

The air was only barely lighter than it had been at Midnight when they stood in the water. It wasn't bright like onset of dawn. Not even close. Why was the Canon going off? It could only have three hours, four at most since they had been given the nightly funereal display of the dead.

Why was the Canon going off?

His heart was racing out a staccato beat against his ribcage, his mind scattering his thoughts like snowflakes in a blizzard. He tightened his hold on Newt, the heat from him scorching despite the bitter chill in the air. The echo of the single Canon fire still rang in his ears.

Why did the Canon go off?

Newt moaned loud and desperate, and the noise yanked Thomas back to earth so hard his system jerked from the shock. Newt. Arena. Canon.

They'd been in the Arena nearly three full days. The death rate was slowing. The BloodBath was past and the weakest mostly eliminated. The Canon had blared through the air to signal a death. To alert them. To allow them to count, to keep track.

To signify that they were victorious so far.

Thomas curled back down against the fevered blonde by his side, tucking his nose against the curve of Newt's neck in a bid to stave off the sudden and compelling urge to vomit. He didn't feel very victorious at all. He felt like was in the process of losing the best and brightest thing in his life. His stomach roiled. He breathed in the familiar smell of his best friend and ached for home.

Newt's scent was acrid from fever, salty from sweat, tainted by the copper of blood and the weirdly blue lake they'd stood in for so long. But it was him, his same smell underneath, the comforting smell that Thomas associated with the field in the Glade just as much as he did the scent of cut grass or the heady lavender of summer.

Newt smelled like he always did, like warmth and friendship and home. Thomas tried to concentrate on that small relief, that small and yet important detail. And it worked. The feeling abated, his focused breathing slowing his heart. He curled his fingers between Newt's and pressed as close as he could, cradling him even though his touch sizzled uncomfortably on his skin.

He pressed soft kisses against Newt's skin, his hair. To soothe himself or Newt he didn't know, but it was calming him down. The anxiety settled back into the familiar constant he had carried for the last few days and he sighed into Newt's matted curls, listening to the reinstated quiet of the forest. Newt moaned, his hand flexing and clenching. His back arched and he loosed a sob that threatened to shake Thomas's hold on his emotions.

"…hurrrrrtsssssss….."

Thomas wished he could take away the pain. He'd take it himself if he had a way to do so. He brushed his fingers over Newt's cheek, trailing his fingers against the burning of his skin.

"Fuck, Newt. Sshh, hey. Hey, it's okay, Newt. It's okay buddy. Shit. I- I wish you were okay." he whispered, trying to give flight to the restless and heavy pain in his heart. "I wish you'd get better. I wish there was something i could do."

His thumb stroked tender circles on the back of the fever-mottled hand as he closed his eyes again, focusing on the strained breaths of the boy in his arms and trying hard to ignore the awakening desperation that choked his veins. The breaths were harsh and uncomfortable but every one was a reassurance that Newt was alive still. The grasp of restless sleep was gone for good, and Thomas tucked his cheek against Newt's hair and looked up through the darkness to the starless sky.

Newt needed it. They needed it. They needed help. He couldn't lose Newt, he couldn't.

He simply couldn't imagine a world that didn't include the optimistic, soft-hearted and caring blonde. His entire body trembled in refusal at the thought.

He'd get Newt through this. He'd send him home to Sonya and it'd be one on the side of his district. The Capitol could go and fuck themselves. They couldn't have him, Thomas wouldn't let them. He'd show them exactly how wrong they were for putting the boy he loved in danger.

But more importantly he'd send Newt home. He'd keep him safe.

He remembered the ratty-looking man's plans, the private chats he'd had with Newt. Thomas hadn't pried. He knew his friend would tell him if he needed to know, would share if he was planning on actually doing anything the man wanted him to. Janson had given them both loose commands, told them to play their given characters and tug on heart-strings and although they'd pretty much disregarded his words Thomas was reminded of his promises and the way he had seemed delighted when Newt had…

Newt had told the whole of Panem he pretty much loved Thomas. The whole of shucking Panem. He was the bravest, strongest person Thomas knew. He'd been at his side since they met, refusing to let Thomas shut him out with the rest of the world when loss became too big a part of his life. He'd gotten Thomas through everything. Thomas would get him through this. He felt the tears brimming as he was staring up at the sky.

"Janson." he whispered, feeling stupid, his expression squirming as he tried not to cry. "Janson please." His breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes closed as he felt his heart breaking again, all over again as though it hadn't already been shattered enough.

"Please. He has to survive. He has to. I can't-"

I can't make it without him.

"I can't watch him die. Please."

I won't survive it.

"He- he means so much- I love him."

His voice bent and broke, and he turned his face into the comfort of Newt's familiar blonde hair. The knowledge that he was being watched by the world like a lab rat in a cage - that unless something more interesting was happening elsewhere everyone in his district was quite possibly watching him break down - became such a small and insignificant fact.

He cried as quietly as he could, the cold and shuddering sobs of the broken and desperate. He cried until he couldn't breathe and continued to cry and somewhere during the outpouring he slipped into sleep, his fingers tight on Newt and the boy's unconscious whimpers answering his own.

Newt began screaming as dawn broke.

Thomas got up with a dark resignation forming like a stone in his stomach. He brushed the sweat-slicked fringe from the face of the thrashing, shrieking boy and placed a hard kiss on his cheek. He whispered how much he loved him in his ear. He ignored the fear, the pain of knowing.

He checked the string on his bow, slipping an arrow into his grip. He started Day Four in the Arena by crouching with his back to a tree near his fellow Glader, his face serious and his heart rate remarkably steady despite the adrenaline waking every nerve in his body.

Somewhere in the Arena another voice was screaming just as desperately, and yet the guttural howling tearing itself from Newt's throat was so much worse. He hoped Aris would stay where he was. Thomas slotted the arrow against the string and cocked his head to listen.

Here we go.