Euphoria (Newtmas one-shots)

Feather

A/N: Brenda didn't burn the Flat Trans to paradise. And one day, Thomas couldn't thank her enough for it. 

Warning: Sad AF. Have a bucket beside you when you read this. Donate all your tears to www.ijustmadethisup.com, I'm building a tear memorial.

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Feathers appear when angels are near...

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Newt blinked.

The light pierced his eyes.

He stretched a little, moving his limbs.

They felt tense, stiff.

A gust of wind blew past him, the warm air adding to his discomfort.

He frowned, and tried to sit up.

He rubbed his head. A wave of discomfort and nausea caused him to almost stumble. He groaned.

Where am I? He thought, because no one would actually say that out loud.

He looked around, seeing nothing but the silhouettes of ruins in the distance. A gun lay next to him, rusty and bloodied.

And suddenly, his memories hit him. Hard.

He remembered himself, sweat running down his back, wide eyes and heavy pants as he begged for Thomas to kill him.

He remembered Thomas's terrified trembling as words tumbled out of his mouth. Insane words, words he didn't mean.

He remembered himself, on the inside, begging for the Flare to stop, but he was too weak. He was always too weak.

He remembered leaning down, the brief kiss with Thomas before he uttered his last words.

Please, Tommy, please. Before the shot sent him into death's embrace.

And, somewhere, somehow, he remembered the hollowed thunk of his body as it hit the ground, darkness enveloping him.

He had been dead, he was sure of it.

But why wasn't he now?

Maybe he was in heaven.

He moved a little, staggering as his head pounded.

Nope, definitely not heaven.

Bloody hell, he thought, too tired to even remotely grimace at the irony of that. He pressed a shaking hand to his temple, and it came away slick with blood.

He waited for the moment of intense craze and craving every time he saw blood; the telltale sign that the Flare was getting to him.

It didn't come.

He frowned, but he didn't question it. He'd learned that from his days in the Glade.

He looked at the gun, lying on the floor. Waiting, just waiting to be picked up. Just waiting to be used.

He inched towards it, even picked it up.

But with a final decision, he pointed it up in the air, rapidly pressing the trigger until he was absolutely sure there were no bullets left.

He looked at the weapon dejectedly, but not regretful.

He wondered why he'd done that. He wondered why he didn't shoot himself. After all, that's all he's been wanting to do for the past three years.

Because, he realised, he had something to live for.

His Tommy.

He was alive again, and he'd seen the look of absolute reluctance and pain when he'd forced Thomas to shoot him.