"This is kind of a weird question, but, um... do you know where all the pens went?"

"Of course," Newt answers. "I have them all."

"Oh. C-can I have one? I need it. To, you know, write."

"Use a pencil."

"W-well, the thing is-"

"Look, the pens are all mine now, alright? You can't take them."

"Newt..."

He picks up a set of keys lying on the table and throws it at Thomas. It misses completely, but the other man looks as if he has been hit anyway.

Good. He should know not to try and take what's his.

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

He wanders through the house, marveling at the colors of each room. Red. Blue. Green. He likes that they stand out so much. Sometimes if he goes into a room where the walls are too muted, he has trouble distinguishing between the background and the furniture. It frightens him, so he has to go to another room where he can tell the difference more easily.

His chair is in the red room, marked with a bright yellow pillow, making it easy to locate.

He can vaguely remember when it wasn't so hard to find things, but all he knows is that it was a long time ago.

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

"Don't forget to brush your teeth," Thomad tells him while washing the dishes.

Newt nods and goes to the bathroom. Put toothpaste on brush, place in mouth, move back and forth.

He needs reminders to do these things now.

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

There are items all over the kitchen counter.

"I'm making a pie," Thomas says, grinning. "Do you want to help?"

Newt looks at him. "Okay."

The other man flashes him a brilliant smile, retrieving a mound of dough from a bowl and setting it on a breadboard before handing Newt a rolling pin. "So just roll this until it's nice and flat, alright?"

He complies, slowly smoothing out all the grooves and bumps with the pin. He doesn't realize that in the time it takes for him to do this, Thomas has greased the plate, made the filling, and prepared the crumbs to go on top.

"Beautiful," Thomas tells him when he is done, pressing the flattened dough into the pie plate, though there is something sad in his eyes when he says the word.

But Newt is happy to hear the praise.

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

"Listen," he can hear Thomas say, "I'm not sure if he's up to talking right now. He's been-well, I know, but-all right, I'll put him on." He turns to Newt "Newt, Minho's calling. Do you want to talk to him?"

"No."

"I think you should."

"No."

"He insists."

"Fine." Thomas hands him the phone. "Who is this?"

A snappy voice answers. "What kind of a stupid question is that? Didn't Thomas just tell you who I was?"

"Thomas just told you who I was."

"What?"

"What?"

"Newt, you're being childish. Stop repeating everything I say."

He wants to recite his latest statement, but he's talking too fast. Not that he's entirely sure why he feels like doing this.

"Anyway," Minho continues, "you haven't called me for several months now. I was getting worried."

"Oh."

There is a brief pause. "Is that all you have to tell me?"

"Mmm."

"Newt," he says, and his voice is lower, more gentle. "Is something wrong?"

Newt takes a moment to think about it. "Send me Doctor Who. Thomas hid the discs."

He can see the other man pursing his lips as Minho responds. "That's it?"

"Yes."

"That's... extremely strange."

"Oh."

"Newt, talk to me."

"No." He hangs up.

When the phone rings again immediately afterward, he refuses to allow Thomas to answer.

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

"Thomas, I'm sorry. Let's go on a walk."

The other man looks up, confused. "What are you sorry about?"

"Not wanting to walk. But I want to walk now."

"Er... okay," he says, grabbing his coat. "It's a bit cold out, though; do you mind?"

Newt shrugs.

"Let me get a scarf for you, then," the other man continues, dashing off and returning with one. As he loops it around Newt's neck, he gets the sudden feeling that maybe Thomas is trying to kill him.

So he slaps him right on the cheek. "You ass," he snarls. "You want me to die, don't you?"

Thomas steps back, looking wounded. "What-"

"Shut the hell up, Tommy. You should have just let me die when I jumped off that wall. Maybe then I wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit now."

He turns to leave, but the other man grabs his arm. "Please, Newt, this isn't you."

"Oh? And how would you know that?" He yanks his arm away. "Leave me alone." And he storms into the bedroom and locks the door behind him.

When he comes out again an hour later, he sees Thomas sitting at the table with his head in his hands, shoulders heaving.

Newt kisses his hair. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer immediately. "Nothing," he whispers finally. "I'm a little tired, is all."

"You should sleep," he replies, wrapping one arm around him.

But Thomas just takes his hand and begins to weep.

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

There is an old man reading a book in the kitchen. He has puffy brown hair and slightly wrinkled features that are--were--familiar.

Newt stares at him, intrigued. He looks extremely familiar. Well, of course he does, if this is who he thinks it is.

"Hey, Newt," the man says, glancing up and giving him a tentative smile.

"Mr. Thomas," he greets, nodding his head.

There is a moment of hesitation before he replies. "You're... certainly formal today."

He seats himself at the table. "We've only just met again. I have to be formal."

Thomas draws in a sharp intake of breath. "R-right," he stutters. "You think I'm... an aquaintance."

"You are, aren't you? The last time we met was ten years ago."

The other man looks as though he's not sure whether he should laugh or cry, taking a few moments to breathe in and out before responding. Newt can't figure out why this is such a hard question to answer. "Yes," he mumbles at last.

"Hmm." He twiddles his thumbs for a bit. "What are you reading?" It's best to be amiable toward the man; Minho certainly wouldn't be happy if the two of them got off to a poor start.

"Hamlet. S-someone I... know likes this play. So I've been rereading it." Mr. Thomas is looking at him hopefully, as if his words might mean something special to him.

Well, he won't be disappointed. "Oh, I enjoy that play as well," he says brightly. "I... have that feeling where it's like I'm the main... person. You see, I used to keep hearing voices in my head. It was my friend...my friend..." he tries to remember a name, but he's rather blank. "...Tommy, he helped me stop them. I'm rather fond of him."

The saddest smile he's ever seen spreads across Mr. Thomas' face. "Really?"

Newt nods. "I like him quite a bit. He's very good to me."

The other bites his lip. "I... I think Tommy would say the same about you, Newt," he replies.

"That's very nice of you to say."

They sit in silence for a moment. He notices that Mr. Thomas is breathing heavily. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine,"the other man murmurs.

Newt has a feeling that he's lying, but it's not his place to intrude.

He takes the time to wonder idly where Tommy is.

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

He breaks through the delusion and it's like a sensory overload; he remembers everything that's happened and oh God, the things he's said and done to him and the way the other just put up with it all this time, pretending to be brave, to be strong, but he knows that while Thomas is indeed brave and strong there is no way he can continue to be, not after all this, and the guilt is overwhelming because he thinks he just might be breaking him but he can't stop himself; his mind is not clear often enough but it is right now and he needs to find him and tell him-tell him-no, he can't tell him because he doesn't know what to tell him, just that he needs to speak with him while he is still here and let him know that he is himself in this very instant and to make it last as long as he can because he knows he will lose this but not yet, not yet, he needs to reach him first and there he is and even though he sees him every day it is not every day that he sees him: Thomas, the man who means more to him than any other person in the world.

"Tommy," he gasps, and he is thankful that his lips still know how to form that name, that exquisite combination of vowels and consonants.

And Thomas looks up at him and those piercing brown eyes meet his own and he is struck by how much pain there is: he knows that he is the cause of all of it and the guilt washes over him again, but then those eyes light up and there is something beautiful there, beautiful and familiar and he remembers seeing that beauty in the past; it is what drew him to the man in the first place all those years ago. "Newt?" he asks, standing up, and he doesn't miss the slight tremble of his hand as he pushes the chair in-he is old, and Newt is making him older.

He throws himself into the other's arms and holds him as tightly as he can; his strength is greatly diminished and so it is not nearly as tight as he would like but he tries his best, and he can feel the other man's arms wrapping around him and also pressing him close and he remembers the last time they embraced each other like this and the things he said, and so he says them again: I love you, I love you, and for him, the words never get old, never get tiring, no matter how much he repeats them because he means it every time, especially now, when he barely says them, but then they change to I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and Thomas is shaking his head and telling him no, no, don't be sorry, please don't say that, I don't blame you.

And when Newt's voice fades, Thomas' fills the silence, whispering stay with me, stay with me, sounding desperate and wretched, and Newt can feel the other's tears on his face, burning like fire but he does not pull back.

He tries, he tries to stay; there is nothing he wants more than to retain this moment of clarity-but already he can feel himself slipping, his mind clouding, his grip on Thomas loosening, and as he steps backward he is only dimly aware of Thomas' stricken features before he is gone again.