"You should eat."

"Don't bloody want to."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"No."

"But you haven't eaten all day. Come on. Strawberries. They're soft. I chopped them up."

"Strawberries," he repeats.

"Yes," Mr. Thomas says. "Here." He feeds him a spoonful.

Newt frowns, then chews slowly and swallows.

"More?"

He shrugs.

Thomas continues to feed him.

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

He picks up the toothbrush and almost immediately drops it. After trying a second time, he is successful at maneuvering it to his mouth, but then he realizes he's not sure what to do with it. Toothbrush. Tooth... brush. But the brushing part eludes him.

Mr. Thomas is sitting in the living room, staring into space. When Newt comes in, the other man gives him a hopeful look, but it fades quickly. "Are you alright, Newt?"

He holds out the toothbrush.

Thomas glances at it. "Do you need help?"

Newt nods.

They go to the bathroom together, where the other man adds a dollop of toothpaste to the brush and slowly raises it to Newt's mouth before starting to move it in a back-and-forth motion. He is gentle and careful. It reminds him of when his own father first helped him learn how to brush his teeth.

He is glad that he has an aquaintance who is every bit as soothing.

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

Mr. Thomas is reading out loud.

"Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand / Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd..."

The words are music to his ears, though he's not entirely sure what all of them mean. Nevertheless, he finds himself restless, so he gets up and starts to leave the room.

"Newt?" Mr. Thomas grabs his arm before he can go any further.

"What?"

"I... don't want you wandering off on your own. Just... please." He looks pained.

Sometimes Mr. Thomas acts like a father to him and sometimes he acts like more. It touches and confuses him at the same time. "Okay," he mumbles.

The other man leads him back to the sofa and sits him down before following suit and taking his hand. "D-do you mind?" he asks quickly.

Newt looks down at their intertwined fingers. It reminds him of Tommy. "Not really."

Mr. Thomas closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, his grip tightening for a second, then opens the book with his free hand. "Fare thee well at once! / The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, / And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire: / Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me..."

And if he had been more aware, he would have realized that Thomas added the emphasis.

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

It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to walk around the house. Every move he makes is accompanied by a tremor in his bones. His limp is especially quite persistent nowadays.

Thomas notices and insists on following him wherever he goes.

He finds it to be very annoying.

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

There is nothing more terrifying than that tub of water.

"Don't put me in there."

"It's just a bath, Newt."

"It'll kill me."

"It won't. I'll be here."

"You'll kill me."

"Newt, that's-" Thomas breaks off and turns away. "I'd never," he whispers.

Newt crosses his arms. "I'm not going in there."

The other man looks too upset to reply.

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

Newt can see a gun lying at his feet and hear a man attacking a familiar face. A pair of brown eyes, brown hair...

The man was attacking Thomas. Tommy.

"Stop breathing my air! I'll... I'll stop you!"

"W-what? What are you...?"

"Stop breathing my air!"

He has no choice. He picks up the gun and throws it at the man.

Then he sees Mr. Thomas clutching at his face. There is a bruise forming beneath his left eye. He looks at Newt, then at the floor, where a bottle of water is lying on its side. "What-why on earth..."

"Don't hurt my friend," he says.

"Dammit, Newt," the other man snaps. His eyes are watering-maybe from the pain, maybe from something else. "God, this-this is getting impossible to put up with. Just... excuse me." He gets up, retrieves an ice pack from the freezer, and leaves the kitchen.

When he is gone, Newt picks up the bottle of water and stares at it, confused as to why it isn't a gun.

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

He is awake, if just barely, when he hears Mr. Thomas get out of the twin bed next to his. After a few moments, he can feel the other man take his hand and plant a kiss on his forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispers. In the darkness it's easy to imagine it's Tommy speaking, somehow. The thought is comforting. "I didn't mean it. It's not you doing these things. The real Newt is still in there somewhere. I won't leave him. You. I wish I could tell you this while you were awake but you probably wouldn't understand anyway." He squeezes his hand. "I'll wait for you to come back. I miss you. I love you. Always. That's what I promised, right? You'd do the same. I know."

The words are coming out too quickly for him to fully comprehend them. But something in the tone of the other man's voice makes him feel at ease.

He can feel a droplet of water fall onto his face.

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

Bright lights and searing pain meet him after he falls down the stairs.

He tries to move but it's impossible. It hurts too much. He can't call for help, either: for some reason he is having difficulties forming a name.

Some time later-he isn't sure how long-Mr. Thomas appears from around the corner, holding a basket of laundry. Their eyes meet. Mr. Thomas drops what he's carrying. "Jesus Christ, Newt," he breathes, running over to him. "Are you okay?"

"It hurts," he says.

Attempts to help him stand up are met with failure after Newt keeps on crying out in pain. His limp feels like it's on fire. His other leg does, too. His entire lower body is burning. Mr. Thomas calls an ambulance.

Newt falls asleep on the way there.

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

He wakes up to see Mr. Thomas talking to a man in a white coat. All three of them are in a sterile-looking room. It reminds him of something, but he can't remember what.

"He'll be fine. With regards to the broken hip, anyway. It'll mend. But I wanted to ask you about your face. How long has that bruise been there?"

"Oh, I don't know... a while," Mr. Thomas replies, reaching up to touch his cheek gingerly.

"A while?"

"A few weeks, I guess."

"It still looks pretty bad."

"I'm old. Don't heal as well anymore." He gives a weak chuckle. "You should have seen how beat up I got when I was younger. Motorcycle accidents and hit-and-runs..."

"Thomas, I think your face might be fractured."

"Oh? That would explain why it hurts so much. Hmm."

"Why didn't you come to the hospital?"

"No need." He purses his lips. "And I didn't want to leave him."

A pause. "You should get that checked out."

"I will. Thanks."

The man in the white coat-he knows there's a name for it but he doesn't know what it is-exits. Mr. Thomas looks at Newt. "You're awake. Feeling alright?"

He shrugs.

"I'm going to call Minho."

He shrugs again.

"I don't know if you told him. But if you haven't, I will. I think he needs to see you."

"Don't know what you're bloody talking about."

Mr. Thomas turns to face the wall. "Guess it's better that way," he can hear him say.

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

"You're so foolish, Newt."

He squirms uncomfortably in his hospital bed. This isn't Minho. Minho is not this old. But this man is.

He keeps on talking. "Though maybe I am, too. I should've suspected something was wrong. But Thomas just had to tell me."

"You talked to Tommy?"

The asian man gives him a strange look. "Of course I did. He's right outside."

"That's Mr. Thomas."

His eyebrows furrow. "Yeah, well, whatever," he says. "In any case, now that I'm here, I have no intention of leaving you. You should've told me. I don't know why you stupidly kept it a secret."

"What secret?"

He sighs. "It doesn't matter, Newtie poo."

"You're not Minho. Don't call me that."

The other man noticeably flinches. "So stupid," he whispers. "You waited till Thomas had to tell me, and now you're gone."

"I'm right here," he snaps irritably.

He just brushes back Newt's bangs and frowns at him sadly.

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

He shouldn't be here he shouldn't be here he shouldn't be here but he is and he can't believe it because he never told him and so he had no reason to come but here he is anyway, sitting in a chair next to his bed looking old but regal; Minho's aged so gracefully and it is beautiful to see, but then he suddenly remembers what it is that Minho is seeing: a dying, demented man, and he's filled with shame and regret and has to turn away, but the sight of the man on other side of his bed only makes him feel worse: Tommy, Tommy, his face obscured by a dark bruise, and he knows who put it there-and though it was because of a hallucination that he did this, he's absolved of his guilt and oh God, he's hurt them both so badly and he can't imagine anything he can do that will make them forgive him; bitterly he finds himself almost wishing for the haze to fall upon him again so that these feelings will go away, but no, no, they deserve more than that.

"I need to talk to you," he says, and he can see the two of them exchanging glances, looking hesitant, uncertain-they don't know that it's him talking to them, not yet, so he needs to make sure they do: "Minho and Tommy."

"Newt," Thomas gasps, and he reaches out to take his hand, kissing it, breathing you're here, you're here, and Minho tentatively clasps his other hand, murmuring Newtie poo, Newtie poo; behind the joy he can hear the anguish in their voices.

Minho is the first to let go, moving elegantly toward the door, and when Newt asks haltingly what he's doing, he merely smiles and tells him he wishes to give him a moment alone with his beloved Tommy. "Thank you," he can hear him whisper before the door shuts, and then it is only the two of them in the room.

Newt looks up at the other man's face, taking in the new wrinkles that have appeared there since he last saw it properly, eyes widening at the purple smudge flowering across his left cheek: he is drawn to it, and so his fingers brush lightly against the bruise; Thomas' grip on his other hand tightens but he does not flinch.

"I did this."

His reply is quick; there is no hesitation. "It wasn't really you."

"I'm still sorry."

Thomas leans in closer, closer, so close that his breath is tickling his hair, and Newt shuts his eyes and lets the feeling wash over him: it is reminiscent of their younger days, lying in bed curled up next to each other, their faces almost touching-he has never felt safer. "I told you already. I don't blame you."

"You should." Tommy, Tommy you are so good to me even when I hurt you. And he wants to lie here with the other's face pressing against his own for a moment longer, wants to bury himself in the comfort he gets from it, but he knows his moments here are numbered: "Need... Minho."

With perfect timing, the other man walks in; Thomas leans back and looks as if he is about to leave, but Newt keeps his grip on the other man's hand as steady as he can while reaching toward his best friend.

"I didn't want you to see me like this," he tells him, and he can see Minho's eyes watering, his lips mouthing the word shuck-face. "I should have bloody told you. I'm sorry I didn't. But now you know. And... I have something to ask of you now that you do. Both of you."

"Anything," Thomas says softly.

He tightens his hold on their hands; when he speaks, his voice is slow and thick: he needs to cast around for each word he wants to say, and it pains him that language should be so difficult now. "Don't... don't forget the friend I used to be."

Minho presses Newt's hand against the spot between his two closed eyes; he can feel wetness on his knuckles but he does not mind. "Never, Newt. Never."

"You're still that friend," Thomas murmurs.

And he can breathe easily again: he wonders, he wonders if they will ever know how much their vow means to him, how important it is to him for others to remember him as how he once was; it is his greatest fear that when he dies, he will be nothing to anyone but a crumpled body-it is why he couldn't bear to let Minho see him like this, why he couldn't tell him the truth; he wanted to leave him memories of him untainted, and yet if they are true to their word, they will remember, they will remember.

Remember, because he himself will forget, because for him memory is a luxury he no longer has access to. "I'm sorry I won't know who you are soon," he whispers. "Minho-you-you're brilliant. And Tommy..." There is so much he wants to tell him, but there is no way he can possibly put all of it in words, and so he settles on the simplest phrase there is: "Still love you."

"Forever," Thomas whispers in reply.

He closes his eyes and squeezes both of their hands briefly before letting go, and as the haze settles in he can hear Minho give a startled "Newt?" and Thomas emit a choked sob. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you both so much and I can't even recognize you anymore, forgive me, I love you, he thinks but cannot say, and when he opens his eyes again the two people by his bedside are nothing more than strangers with tear-streaked faces.