Newtmas & Dylmas One-Shots

Burying Newt (Newtmas Bonus #23)

This is a little imagine I decided to write after enduring The Death Cure three times, and being in absolute tears ever since. Obviously, this story contains slight spoilers from the film, so read at your own risk. I recommend playing the song too. It's perfect, for this. I know that technically, I should have another Dylmas story first, based on how the order has been in the past but... consider this a little something extra. And yes, I posted this on Tumblr too. 

Tommy. The last thing Thomas would ever remember Newt saying, was his name in a pained whisper as the knife pierced through him, making him fall and succumb to his wounds, to the flare, and make it all be over. Thomas couldn't shake this feeling of dread, of longing, and of realising that he never got to tell Newt that he loved him. He always pushed it back in his mind, reminding himself that he could always say it another day. Except, there was no other day left now, for it to be said. It was too late, and Newt was gone.

Thank you for being my friend. He kept reading it, hoping it would change, that the words would change. He willed for it to, but it never did. Newt hadn't made it to paradise, and out of everyone, he seemed to deserve it the most. But he didn't. And worst of all, Thomas could've saved Newt. He didn't have to die, but it was a little too late, and Thomas couldn't change it now. No matter how much he wanted it to. Thomas wanted to go back, more than anything. All he could do, though, was replay everything between them in his mind on repeat, over and over, until it pained him too much and he'd let out a pained cry, yearning, needing, but not getting what he wanted. Thomas would never get what he'd wanted. He would never hear Newt's voice again, not in the way he used to, anyway. And the only time he'll see Newt again, is when they buried him beneath the ground by the beach in a couple of hours.

Thomas hadn't been aware of it at the time due to his own wounds, but Minho had carried Newt back with the help of Gally, to the Berg. He hadn't wanted to leave Newt to lie there, to eventually burn or be devoured by other cranks. And so he came with, and was now to be buried. And this very event pained Thomas almost more than Newt dying. Having to watch someone he loved so much, be taken beneath the ground, never to resurface, it burned at his heart in a way unlike any other pain he knew. And Thomas knew a lot of pain.

"Thomas? It's time," he heard a voice, recognising it as Minho's only when he looked up, having been deep in thoughts, holding the necklace close to his heart, before leaving a kiss on it. He sighed, nodding slowly as tears begun to fall again as he got up, following after his best friend with heavy steps. Thomas wanted nothing more than to be buried in the ground with Newt, at this rate, but he knew that the blonde would scowl in disproval. Don't be a twat about it. Thomas chuckled, remembering those words so clearly. The words that would eventually lead Newt all the way to his doom. He could imagine Newt saying them now, to him, as Thomas thought about dying too, and he almost laughed. Newt had a way about him that always made Thomas feel so happy. The blonde had made his bleak world better, and Thomas repaid him terribly. He didn't save him.

Minho watched Thomas trail behind, but he didn't comment on it. He didn't tell Thomas to hurry up, or to walk faster, or to stop slowing Minho down. No, he waited patiently, knowing why the other was in such pain, for he was too. He missed Newt, he really did. He may not have been in love with Newt, in the way Thomas was, but he did love him as a friend, and with that followed a deep pain at having lost him.

It was a small burial. Only the people who knew Newt were aware of this being held, and Thomas was relieved that the entire Safe Haven wouldn't need to see him break. The hole in the ground felt smaller than the gap he felt in his heart, and he let out a heavy, shaky breath, as he walked forward to stand before everyone. He'd wanted to give the speech. A proper one. Something real, genuine, because Newt deserved nothing less. It was hard to walk forward though, as Newt was lying there, in a change of clothes (Thomas' clothes, no less, though in his own jacket). Thomas himself was wearing one of Newt's jackets, the maroon one. It wasn't very funeral like, maybe, but he didn't care. It was Newt's, and that's what mattered. It smelled like him, and it warmed Thomas, but it also made him cry before he even managed to say the first words he'd prepared.