"Sonya's going to come by soon," Thomas tells him during one of their daily walks.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she's going to do some redecorating." He chuckles. "Can't say she's much good at it, but it'll be nice to have some color in the house, since... you know."

Newt glances at him. "You told her?"

"Newt, she's your sister. Of course I told them."

He looks down at the ground. "Does anyone else know?"

"No. I thought... it should be your decision. In case you wanted to release it to the world à la Press Conference."

"I'm sure millions of people would be interested in an Alzheimer's letter from an old, retired actor."

Thomas manages a weak smile. "Well, anyway. I do think you should call Minho, at the very least."

"Hmm." For some reason, it had never crossed his mind to inform anyone else. And even now, the idea seems completely unappealing.

He knows why. But he doesn't want to admit it to anyone. "I'll consider it," he says.

They continue to walk.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Newt spends an hour or so staring at the phone that night, Thomas' words echoing in his head. He needs to know. He doesn't want to tell him.

But he should.

He finally picks it up, and, after several moments of stumbling around hunting down his number and instructions on how to make international calls-which he needs Thomas to help him read-he tentatively begins to punch in the buttons.

A clipped voice answers. "What stupidly shuck-faced person would call at this shucking hour in the morning?"

Damn. He had forgotten about the time zone difference. "Your bloody shuck-faced best friend, I suppose."

"Newt?"

"Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah, but..." A pause. "It's not like you to display such stupid judgment in the timing of calls. So this must be important."

He winces at his words. "That's what I wanted to talk about, actually," he says cautiously. "My 'stupid judgment', as you so put it. S-something's come up, Minho."

"What is it?"

"I..." I have a disease with no known cure that will strip me of my ability to form memories, make rational decisions, understand language, and, in the end, live on my own.

He shudders. He can't say that to hin-because if he does, then he'll want to fly here and visit, and her last memory of him will not be of Newt, the brilliant, gifted theater actor but of Newt, the degenerating, dying man. And he doesn't want that.

"Newt?"

He should tell him.

But he won't.

"I drank too much last night with Tommy."

He can hear Minho snort on the other end. "You two still drink? This is why I'd hate to leave the two of you alone in one roof. Remind me to throw all of the alcohol in your fridge the next time I come home from Korea."

"I'll have to keep that in mind."

There is silence for a moment. And then: "Is that all?" Minho sounds suspicious.

"It, ah, made me ill."

"Well." More silence. "I trust that if you called for something stupid like this, you would certainly inform me of other important happenings in your life as well, yeah?"

"Of course. Sorry to have bothered you, Minho. Go back to sleep."

"Hmph. You know you're not a bother to me, Newt."

He closes his eyes. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Make sure Thomas takes good care of you."

"He will."

"Don't drink any more alcohol "

"I won't."

"Until next time, then, Newtie poo."

Next time. He has a sudden, terrible feeling that there won't be a next time for the two of them-not while he's still sane, anyway.

"You're a good friend, Minho." he murmurs, and hangs up.

He should have told him.

But he didn't.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Sonya's standing there in the doorway, biting her lip and staring at him, like she doesn't know what to say.

It's probably best to get it over with. "Tommy told me he told you about my... problem." He feels a pang of guilt when he speaks those words, but he can't quite remember what it is he's feeling guilty about. Something to do with Minho...?

Sonya stares some more before throwing his arms around him and beginning to babble. "I'm sorry if I've only came today I've been on tour and stuff and Harriet and I've been so busy planning Aris and Rachel's wedding and I know you should be top priority becaude family but--oh I'm sorry I'm so sorrt Newt." Sonya steps forward and holds his face in her hands and she kisses his forehead like the worrying older sister she is.

"Sonya, I think you might be choking him," Thomas says from off to the side, eyes creased in amusement.

The other two let go quickly but continue talking, unfazed. "Anyway, I brought paint and other things so we're going to really liven this place up!" Sonya says.

She is true to his word. After settling in and eating, she has them start on the living room, covering it in, of all colors, a bright, garish red. Thomas hums to himself indulgently as he gets to work, and after a moment's hesitation, Thomas follows suit.

It isn't until after almost an hour that he realizes he's been painting the walls in a completely eccentric way, his brush strokes wavering wildly, looking like mad scribbles. When he apologizes for wasting the paint, Sonya giggles and tells him that it's fine, they can buy more; she has the money since she's a world-famous theater actor now, after all, just like him. Only younger. But he doesn't miss the stricken look she gives Thomas, nor the sad shake of the head she receives in return.

Newt excuses himself, at that point, to wash up. But he ends up curled on the floor of the bathroom, hating his own traitorous body and this stupid disease.

He knows it's only going to get worse.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

"What's going to happen to him?"

"It's a degenerative illness. He's... going to lose a lot of brain function."

He probably shouldn't be listening in on their conversation. They think he's sleeping, after all. But now that he can hear them, he finds himself unable to move away.

"Who else knows?"

"He called Minho. I don't know if he told him. I hope he did, but I never asked. I thought it should be his decision." Thomas gives a bitter laugh. "God, I don't even know. I read somewhere you should give them a lot of choice. Or something. Just... this is really hard."

"Are you okay?"

A pause. "Not at all," he answers, so quietly Newt can barely make out the words. "But I'm trying to keep my spirits up. For both our sakes. You saw what he was like today, though. Making scribbles on the walls. Usually he's normal, but there are times when something is wrong. And it's probably going to start happening more often. I... I'm scared, Sonya."

He tears himself away from the door and stumbles back to his room at that point, unable to listen any longer. It breaks his heart, hearing the other talk like this. Thomas, the eternal optimist, scared. The implications are terrifying.

But by the next morning, he doesn't remember it well enough to be afraid himself.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Thomas looks hassled as he makes his way around the house, checking all the drawers.

"What are you looking for?" Newt asks.

"My wallet."

"Shouldn't it be on the counter where you usually put it?"

"Yeah."

"So it's not?"

The other man shifts uncomfortably. "Um... it was moved."

"By who? There are only the two of us in the house."

"Weird, isn't it?"

But then it hits him. "I moved it, didn't I?"

"It's fine, Newt, really."

Newt doesn't answer.

Thomas finds it eventually, tucked in the pantry between two bottles of grape juice. He laughs it off and says that at least it wasn't in the trash can.

He hates himself a little more.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

He is back to sitting in front of the TV. A small voice in the back of his head tells him this isn't a good sign, but his mind is too hazy to process it. Thomas tries to drag him out on a walk, and when that doesn't work, attempts to engage him in conversation instead.

Newt tells him to go away.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

He puts on his full theater suit, complete with silver emroidery and ivory tie before leaving the room.

"Interesting choice of clothing," Thomas says.

"What?"

He stares at him for a second, then looks down. "Er, nothing. Sorry."

Thomas starts to lay out the next day's outfit for him after that. He never figures out the reason for it.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

He hasn't said "I love you" very much lately because it keeps on slipping his mind. But when he does remember, Thomas still responds as warmly as ever.

He thinks he can see tears in the other man's eyes on those occasions.

Sometimes he understands why, and tears form in his own eyes.

Sometimes he doesn't.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

"Thirsty," he mumbles from the couch.

"Do you want a drink?"

"Yes. Get me... when you have a glass of it and you put your hand on the other side you can see it. Same color."

"What?"

"If you put your hand on the other side it's the same color."

"Do you mean clear?" Thomas asks, biting his lip. "Like... water?"

"Mmm."

And by now, he has been unable to find the right words so many times that he is only slightly alarmed.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

He hands Thomas a book. "Read to me," he tells him.

The other looks surprised. "Read...?"

"I... can't read very well on my own anymore. So I want to hear you read. It's like... I want to hear high language. I can barely make high language myself now." He pauses, vaguely aware that Thomas may not have caught his meaning. "Does that make sense?"

His eyebrows furrow. "I think so. Newt..."

"Just read," he says, settling himself within the crook of Thomas' arm. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't know if I... can."

"Alright," Thomas murmurs, pulling him closer and opening the book. "Wait, this is a play."

"I know."

"It's a bit dark, too, isn't it?"

Newt presses himself against the other's body. "It means a lot to me."

A pause, then a grin. "Would you like me to do voices?"

He manages a weak laugh. "If you want."

"Get ready to be amazed, then." He clears his throat dramatically and begins. "Who's there? / Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself. / Long live the king..."

Newt falls asleep in Thomas' arms, listening to the sounds of Hamlet being read out loud, reveling in the artistry of a language he can no longer fully comprehend.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

He has a moment of acute awareness in which he realizes that he cannot read, he cannot write, and he cannot speak as he used to, and suddenly he's scared, he's scared, he's scared, but there's nothing he can do about it and it's like parts of his mind are leaking away and he wants to patch up the holes but he has nothing to patch it up with and so it continues to empty and what is the point of living if he cannot communicate, especially not with Thomas, Thomas the man he promised he would say "I love you" to all the time except he forgets as much as he remembers and sometimes he hears the word and isn't even sure what it means but when he does recall the definition it breaks his heart because Thomas needs to know this but he doesn't tell him enough and he really should but his memory is failing and language is failing and he cannot keep his terrified thoughts in order but then for better or for worse this moment of acute awareness fades and he resumes his daily, dying life.