Thawne was probably expecting quips or angry outbursts or some kind of response. But he didn't get it. Barry was tired of arguing, tired of fighting. There was no need to respond to Thawne's arrogance because, in a way, he was right. Barry had never really beaten him. Every time he fought him, he lost things. People. Parts of himself. And even when Eobard had been gone, he'd still won because he had been right. A part of Barry would never be able to be happy.
He looked up at Thawne even as blood obscured his vision, not bothering to fight against the hand holding him down. He didn't want to listen to this. Didn't want to hear him monologue. He had no desire to listen to lies about how the man thought of him as family. If it was going to end, he just wanted it to end. He gave a wet cough and forced the words out. "If you're going to kill me, Thawne," he ground out, the words as numb as he felt, "spare me the speeches and just do it already." He wasn't as afraid of death as he'd thought he'd be. Honestly, he was mostly just relieved.