splitting colors

Thomas feels the air disappear from his lungs, and he clenches the gun in his right hand even tighter, trying to keep himself from breaking down completely. He wishes, with a ferocity that surprises even himself, that he and Newt had met in another place, in another time, where they could have been brought together by lightness and laughter rather than the mutual need to survive. In a world where Thomas had the luxury of time, time to properly sort out his feelings, time for Newt to love him back.

More than anything, he wishes he had the words to explain just why he can’t do what Newt wants. But he doesn’t.

So Thomas kisses him.