An old man and an asian one take him to a place they call home in a wheelchair. There is something familiar about them, but he cannot recognize who they are. All he is certain about is that they seem to care for him.

That is all he needs to know.

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Sometimes the old man reads to him. Sometimes the asian one reads to him.

Right now, it's the asian one. He's holding not a book, but a thick folder. "'Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand / Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd...' Do you remember this play, Newt?"

He can barely make out his words. He shrugs.

"No? Stupid of me to continue thinking that old transcripts would help. Nevertheless, I thought you were amazing in that play. You were real shy back in highschool, so nobody ever really imagined you as a theater actor, but holy klunk did you prove us wrong. You were one of the best back in your days," he smirks, but Newt doesn't understand the meaning behind it.

He shrugs again. He seems to be doing a lot of this lately.

The asian man bites his lips. "I think you've spoiled me. You were yourself so soon after I came back Korea, and now I'm expecting it to happen frequently. But Thomas tells me that it's so rare for him to have... you know, you."

Thomas. He thinks that's the old man's name, though otherwise it is of no significance to him.

The asian man's still talking. "He told me that you've been getting worse since coming home from the hospital. He said you thought he was the younger Thomas, the one from college, not Tommy, the one you live with. Now you don't recognize him at all. Do you recognize me, Newt? No... maybe I shouldn't ask. I know the answer, anyway. Shit. Let me ask you this, then. Do you know who you are?"

"Who you are," Newt mumbles. The asian man's words come out too quickly for him to keep up with.

The man considers him carefully for a moment. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. I know who you are. You're Newt, theater actor and best friend of Minho Park. That's how I'll always think of you. You didn't have to ask."

He has no idea what he is talking about, but what he says makes Newt feel better all the same.

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There are several pictures on the wall of the bedroom, which he finds himself sleeping in most of the time. Every now and then he takes a moment to consider them. Several contain a man with blonde hair, honey brown eyes. Another man with brown hair and beautiful, beautiful chocolate eyes appears frequently as well, along with an asian man with perfect black hair and a younger blonde girl with simililar features to the other blonde. There are other faces as well. All of them are smiling at him.

He smiles at these strangers in return.

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"Newt!" the woman says brightly upon seeing him. She is not as old as the other two men with him, but she isn't very young either. And though her tone is happy, her eyes are rimmed with red. In the background, he can see the old man leaning against the doorframe, the other asian man standing behind him, their eyes also swollen and puffy. "So, after I got here... Thomas told me some things about you, and I think you'd really like to see some magic Harriet, Aris and I've been practicing!" An article of clothing appears in her hands. "Look at what I can pull out of this!"

A whole slew of tricks follow. He finds himself laughing and clapping like a child at her antics, spurred on by her encouraging grins, but there is something sad in her expression that he cannot quite make out.

"I won't forget either, Newt," she tells him when she is done, kissing him on the cheek.

He still hasn't figured out what they are remembering.

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"Drink," he croaks from the wheelchair.

The old man immediately stands up, pours some apple juice into a glass, then adds a straw before bringing it to him. He slurps it up enthusiastically; when he is done, the man tries to take it away, but he keeps his lips firmly around the straw and continues to draw in air.

"Don't do that, Newt, it's not good to breathe like that."

He ignores him.

A piece of hard candy appears in the other man's hand. "Suck on this instead."

The straw drops out of his mouth immediately as he places the candy carefully onto his tongue. "Sweet," he says happily.

"I know," the man says, and he closes his eyes and sighs.

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They tell him that his hip has healed, which means he doesn't need to be in the wheelchair anymore. But when he tries to stand, he collapses almost immediately: his legs can no longer support him. Both of them have betrayed him.

So he remains sitting.

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The old man gently lifts him out of the wheelchair and places him on the couch, then sits down and cradles him against his body, rocking him gently. "Shouldn't reminisce, I know," he can hear him murmur. "Especially since you probably can't understand me." There is a pause as his hand begins to stroke his hair. "But I remember once, Chuck was going abroad for the first time to perform with Sonya and Harriet and Aris, and I was so upset... stupid, but I didn't want my baby brother to leave, even though I knew it was coming... so I saw him off at the airport and when I got home I cried, and it was pathetic but you didn't laugh and you held me like this... told me I wasn't alone... that I wouldn't ever be alone. Then you said something about how everyone became stars when they died, and I asked where on earth that came from. You got all flustered, remember? And something clicked and I asked you if that was from The Lion King, except you tried to deny it. Didn't work, though; I got the truth out of you eventually. And then we watched it." He laughs. "Two grown men, watching an ancient Disney cartoon. Even worse than a grown man watching Doctor Who. You didn't say anything, but I saw your eyes get wet when Mufasa died. So I held you too. And we just kind of clung to each other for the rest of the movie, and when that ended we stayed on the couch and didn't move until Chuck called the next morning."

He doesn't respond. Only the most basic words are getting through to him.

The man puts his head on his shoulder. "I don't really know what you're thinking right now. But I hope you realize you're not alone, either. Me, Minho, Sonya... we're here. And I know... you can't really hold me anymore. But that's fine. I've got you. I've got you." He repeats those last three words, more to himself than to anyone else, as he continues to cradle him.

"Got you," he mumbles in return.

The old man holds him closer.

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"Thomas, he's shivering," the woman says nervously.

He doesn't understand how he can feel so warm but so cold at the same time. It's uncomfortable.

"Sonya, go get a blanket from his room, okay?" the man says, kneeling in front of the wheelchair. The woman leaves while the man stares at him. "Newt, are you alright?"

"C-coll," he stutters.

"Cold?"

The woman returns and wraps the blanket around him, then places a hand on his forehead. "I-it feels like he's burning up."

"You don't think... not a fever, is it?"

"Stop this stupid klunk at once," the other man, the asian one, says, rising from the table. "Get him in bed. Immediately."

The old man quickly wheels him to his room and lowers him into his bed, then sits down in the little chair beside him. The other two appear soon after.

"He's okay, right?" the younger one asks.

"I don't know. I think he's caught something."

The asian man frowns and approaches him. "Newt. You're going to sleep and recover. Understand?"

He blinks up at him.

He looks at the other man. "Do you have medicine for these symptoms?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if you can mix it with the stuff he's taking... not that it's really doing any good, but..."

"We'll figure it out. Come on."

They leave, and only the younger woman is left. "Please be alright, Newt," she says weakly, sitting down beside him. "I know... I'm not a child anymore, but... I don't want to lose you. You're my big brother. I love you, and so do Minho and Thomas and we don't want you to-to-" She breaks off and looks away guiltily. "Please. I'd tell the world my magician's secrets if I knew it meant you'd be okay. But because that won't ever happen..." A flower appears out of thin air. She places it next to his hand. "You did so much for us, and this is all I have to give back to you."

His fingers unconsciously curl around the stem. She gives him a wistful smile and kisses him on the forehead. "Love you, big bro."

But he cannot say the same in reply.

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He sleeps.

Every now and then he is awoken by someone lifting up various parts of his body. "Bedsores," he hears, but he doesn't know what it means.

He never talks to whoever is waking him up. He has no words anymore.

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There is blood when he coughs.

When the old man sees it, he announces to the other two that he's taking him to the hospital.

He finds himself once more in that stark-white room. He is too tired to care, though, and so he continues to sleep.

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Sometimes when he doesn't sleep, he seizes. His body trembles and he becomes temporarily blind. After it's over, his eyes dart around frantically, taking in the fearful, haggard faces of the old man, the asian man, and the young blonde girl.

Other times he finds it impossible to swallow, and someone puts something over his mouth until his throat opens up again.

But most of his waking hours are spent staring at the ceiling. He can feel the presence of at least one of the three people by his side at all times. They talk to him, read to him, hold his hand. But he cannot acknowledge them.

Even he is aware that he is close to dying.

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When he knows who he is again, it's Thomas who's in the room with him. Thomas, who looks so worn and tired that he is almost unrecognizable aside from the puffy brown hair; even the fire that once lit those brown eyes seems to have almost died out, and oh God what have I done to him, this man he loves but is also killing just by existing, and when he thinks this, he suddenly realizes what he must do but it takes so much courage, courage he's not sure he has anymore because the idea is so terrifying, but he can't allow things to go on like this, not when he is draining Thomas of his life.

His decision is simple: this will be the last moment of clarity he will ever have again.

"Tommy," he rasps, and his throat burns from not speaking for so long, but the pain doesn't matter: if this is his last time, he will endure this as long as he needs to.

His voice is so quiet, the word so poorly enunciated that he is not even sure that the other man has heard, but no, he has, and suddenly the fire is back, and he is thankful that he has not killed Thomas yet, that he will not kill him, not if he goes through with this.

"You're here," he whispers with a small smile, and his ears revel at the sound of his speech. "You-you're here," he repeats, and his shoulders begin to heave, but that doesn't stop him from clasping one of Newt's hands. "Oh, God, Newt, I was so afraid you'd never come back-d-do you want me to get Minho? Sonya? They're right outside, I'm sure, if you want to see them-"

"Want to talk to you first," he says.

Thomas nods quickly, taking his hand and kissing it, and though he does not speak he can see him mouthing you're here, you're here, over and over again, chanting it like a mantra.

"Why... in hospital?" He is almost disgusted by his inability to form entire, coherent sentences, disgusted by the fact that he cannot truly be himself for Thomas in these last moments, but he knows that this will have to do.

The other man glances at him, then looks away. "You caught pneumonia."

"So I'm really... I'm really dying now."

Thomas closes his eyes and holds Newt's hand to his cheek; he doesn't respond, and that is answer enough-it strengthens his resolution, gives him confidence that the choice he is making is the right one.

"I want..." He pauses and shivers involuntarily; speech is so hard for him now, especially when the muscles of his mouth oppose every movement he makes. "Want to thank you, Tommy."

The eyes snap open and meet his own. "What are you talking about?"

Newt tries to shift position, but none of his limbs seem to be cooperating. "Did you know...? I don't think I can... smile anymore."

"Newt..."

He shakes his head; the movement is almost imperceptible, but Thomas catches it and stops speaking. "Thank you because... spent a lifetime smiling with you. Because... you saved me." He takes a deep, rattling breath as he steels himself for what he is going to say next; the clattering of his lungs keeps him going. "But you can't... save me anymore."

"You're not-you're not saying what I think you are, are you?" His eyes are wide now, a little panicked, and Newt knows that although this will hurt him, in the end, it'll be better for everyone.

He gives a slight nod, but even that small effort makes his head ache. "I'm... dragging all of you down. I'm in pain... and you are too... don't bloody want it like this. Please... do this for me. End it."

Thomas stares at him for several moments, as if judging the sincerity of his request; Newt meets his gaze and does not break away, trying to tell him with his eyes, if not with his lips, that this is what he wants, what he needs: he cannot bear to remain a useless shell in this world any longer, cannot bear to deteriorate even more than he already has, cannot bear to see the anguish on their faces when they speak and he does not respond, and most of all: cannot bear to watch as they pour their lives into trying to preserve his own, not when it is so obviously in vain.

Please, Tommy. Please.

And because this is Thomas he understands. "I'll talk to the doctor," he whispers finally.

He closes his eyes in approval: he had the courage to ask after all, and now everything will end; it's strange, he thinks, how he can feel so calm about all this-perhaps it's the medication, perhaps it's because he knows it's time. "Want to tell you... one more thing."

Thomas grips his hand more tightly. "What is it?"

"Remember... long time ago...? Told you... no regrets. Still true. I wouldn't change anything. Everything worth it... to have you in my life."

"Newt, I... I feel the same way." Thomas is openly crying now, and Newt's own vision is blurring as well.

But there are still a few more things he needs to do before it's all over, and so he slowly, painstakingly raises one hand to brush the tears off Thomas' cheek. "Minho and Sonya... explain... then ask them to come..."

Thomas nods, reluctantly letting go of his hand and looking away only when he is past the door. In the few minutes that he is alone, he can feel the haze threatening to settle upon him again, but he fights it, fights it, thinking you will have me soon enough, just give me this one last moment, and it works: when they enter the room, he knows who they are-his sister and his best friend.

And, of course, Tommy, because Tommy is always by his side.

"So this is what you want?" Minho asks: his voice is clipped but Newt can detect the tremor behind it.

"Yes," he murmurs. Minho, Minho, please. Be brave for us all.

"You shouldn't have to leave us now," Sonya says softly.

"I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "Thomas explained it to us... and I think I understand. But... I'll miss you."

He tries to nod; the exertion is wearing him out and he knows he needs to get on with it. "Sonya... I never thought I would have... a sister. But I... I'm glad you showed up. And Minho... I have such wonderful memories of life... because of you. Thank you... all."

"We'll remember you, shuck-face."

"Always, big brother," Sonya adds.

And Thomas leans in close, murmuring in his ear: "I swear, Newt, this isn't the end. We'll be together again, someday. I'll find you. Because I meant it when I said forever. I love you. God, I love you, Newt. Wherever you go-don't forget me, alright? P-promise me."

"I promise," Newt breathes in reply.

He looks at each of them in turn: Thomas, Minho, Sonya. They are the three closest people to him in the world, and though none of them are even related to him by blood, that is almost trivial-they are connected by so much more.

They are his family, and they will always be there for him.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

And when he slips away for this final time, he is content.

Stop.