-Hello, lovely readers! First of all, I wanna say thank you so so much for the reviews. You're the best readers ever, seriously. Second of all, um, I'm sorry; I feel like this chapter wasn't as well-written as it could've been, but hey, I'll let you be the judge. Only a few more chapters left! Hang in there, guys :)-

The days dragged on and on, torturously slow. Every one of them was worse than the last. Minho barely left the hospital now. His boss at work had warned him about staying away from the school for too long; none of the substitutes knew anything about art and the children's education was suffering. But Minho couldn't leave until he was sure that Newt was okay. Or until... He worked every day to shove that particular thought to the back of mind, leaving it unfinished. It lurked at the edges of his consciousness, haunting him as he walked down the now-familiar white hallways.

Newt settled into a gruesome routine as the days passed. In the morning, he'd be injected with a heavy dose of medication. Combined with his ravaged body, it made him weak and tired all of the time. Then, the hospital staff would bring him food. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Newt hardly touched anything. What he did eat, he couldn't keep down. He began to live off of crackers and water. His body became even thinner, more sickly. Then there were the headaches. They came out of nowhere, wrecking balls bursting into his skull and making him cry out in pain. Nurses and doctors would rush to aid him with powerful painkillers and icepacks.

The nights were even worse. Every single night, Newt woke up screaming from vivid hallucinations. He saw the hospital around him on fire, jerking his hands away from the bedsheets as though they burned him. He saw wild animals crashing through the door and lunging for him with long claws. He saw people crawling, begging for him to save them, bleeding out in front of him. Every time, Minho was there, jerked awake by Newt's broken voice. He'd take Newt in his arms and hold him, whispering soft things in his ear until the hallucinations died. And then he'd do it all over again the next night.

It was unbearable. Minho was falling apart. He couldn't stand watching Newt go through this. Death was tearing him open day after day, and it was taking its time in doing so. Minho knew that he shouldn't want to see Newt suffer the way he was. But Minho was selfish; he wanted Newt to keep fighting, because he wanted Newt to live. He still needed more time together. He needed so much more than they'd gotten.

I can't live without him, Minho thought to himself, as he walked down the Flare hallway once again. His steps were sluggish, feet sliding over the floor. He felt like his bones were made of lead, exhaustion pulling them downward. He barely slept now. His hair was rumpled. He gave up completely on caring about what he looked like; he wore gray sweatpants and a black hoodie to fight off the constant chill of the hospital. Rubbing at his eyes, he stifled a yawn as he made his way toward Newt's room. He pretty much lived there now, only leaving when he absolutely had to.

He'd just about made it there when suddenly, a new and terrifying sound reached him. It was a loud, screeching crash, as though something had been hurled at the wall. It made a strange hollow noise too. It was a sound he couldn't place, but he definitely knew that something had been broken. His tiredness was forgotten in new fear, and he picked up the pace. He was jogging when he reached Newt's door and halted at the threshold. He couldn't speak for a long minute. He just stared at the destruction in front him, lips parting in astonishment.

Newt was sitting on the floor, on his knees. His back was hunched forward and he held his hands palm-up in his lap. His hair flopped messily down into his face, but he didn't seem to notice. He was busy staring hollowly at the mess around him. Lying in front of him on the floor, amid a sea of splinters, was his violin. The precious instrument was smashed in two, held together by only the gleam of strings. The bow laid beside it, still whole, but now unfathomably lonely. Splinters and bits of wood were scattered about on the floor. There was a mess of bloody scratches on Newt's arms and hands too.

Minho's lungs wouldn't work. Newt had...done this himself?

Minho took a single step into the room. "N—Newt," he stammered, his shock still ringing in his voice. "What did you...?" He didn't finish. He couldn't tear his eyes from the beautiful, awful shipwreck of Newt's beloved instrument.

Newt's gaze darted up to Minho's face, then back down again. He spoke in a numb, empty voice. "Minho." The greeting had lost its normal happiness.

Minho ran his hand over his face as he picked his way through the wreckage. "Newt, I..." He trailed off, kneeling down next to Newt. "Why would you do this?"

Newt silently held out his hands to Minho. Minho glanced down in confusion. Newt's fingers were permanently curled upward into ragged claws. His hands shook violently as Minho watched, and were riddled with splinters and beads of blood. "They never stop shaking," Newt said.

Minho searched his face, puzzled.

Newt took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. "I can't play anymore."

Minho felt the words like they were blades in his heart. He glanced back down at the broken violin. God, it wasn't enough that the Flare was already taking Newt's life. It had to steal this from him too. Tenderly touching Newt's back, Minho forced a smile onto his face. "Don't worry about it," he murmured. "I'll buy you a new one."

Newt shook his head. "They're too expensive..."

"I don't care. I'll get you any one you want."

"You can't mean that."

"I do."

Newt looked down at his slashed hands and sniffed. "I had this one since I was four," he whispered hoarsely.

Minho slid his hand up and down Newt's back, feeling every notch of Newt's spine under his shirt. "It's okay," he assured soothingly. "It's okay. You were angry, but it's over now. You're fine." He waited until Newt closed his eyes under Minho's touch. Then he tugged at Newt's shirtsleeve. "C'mon. We need to clean up your hands."

Newt nodded and let himself be gently pulled to his feet. His clothes hung on his spindly frame, showing the sharp protrusions of his shoulders. His skin was so pale, it looked more green than white. On the way across the room, he stumbled. Minho caught him immediately, an arm around Newt's waist and the blonde's side against his. He felt every one of Newt's ribs through his shirt. Newt whimpered weakly. "I can't walk."

"It's all right, sweetheart," Minho murmured. "I'll carry you." It was a short distance to the sink anyway. Bending down, he looped an arm under Newt's knees, and another under his back. He straightened up again, cradling Newt in his arms. The blonde pressed his face into Minho's shoulder, eyelids slipping shut. Minho brushed his lips to Newt's head before carrying him the rest of the way to the room's sink. Pausing, he asked, "do you wanna sit down instead of standing?"

"Yes," Newt breathed back.

Minho carefully set Newt down on the edge of the sink, as there weren't any other chairs close by. After making sure that Newt wouldn't topple over, he turned to the sink. He twisted a handle and cold water came rushing out. He tried to make it warmer, but not too hot. The entire time, he rested his hand subconsciously on Newt's leg, as though to keep him from falling onto the floor.

Once the water was warm enough, Minho took Newt's hands in his own. He tediously plucked out every splinter, doing it in a dreadfully patient way that would cause no pain to Newt. Then he guided Newt's hands into the stream of water. Newt let out a sigh as the water eased away the throbbing in his hands. A swirl of pale crimson appeared in the sink, spinning away down the drain. Minho rubbed his thumbs over Newt's palms and down his lovely musician's fingers. He found himself lost in the feel of it and probably washed Newt's hands for longer than he needed to. Then he shut off the water and looked around for paper towels.

Newt watched as Minho found the paper towel dispenser on the wall and pulled out three. The blonde drew in a rattling breath. "Min. I wanted to tell you—" He broke off, hissing as he touched a hand to his temple. Pain gleamed in his eyes.

"Shhh. Don't talk." Minho reached up and gently took Newt's hand from his head. He began to dry both of Newt's hands, dabbing the towels in the lingering blood.

Newt let out a long sigh, but stayed silent as Minho worked on his hands. Once Minho was done and had thrown the paper towels away, he turned back to Newt. "All right," he said softly, leaning in and kissing Newt's forehead. "I'll get you back in bed, okay?"

Newt managed a weak smile as Minho slid him off the counter and back into his arms. Holding Newt close, he started to carry him back to his hospital bed. He made it halfway there when Newt abruptly reached up to cup his jaw. Turning Minho's face toward him, he pressed a kiss to Minho's mouth. Minho paused, his eyelids fluttering shut as Newt's soft lips touched his. When Newt pulled back, he stroked his thumb once over Minho's cheek. "I wanted to say I'm sorry," he whispered.

Minho cocked his head. "Why're you sorry?" he asked.

"Because I don't think I can hold on." Newt's voice shook. "I'm trying, Minho, I'm trying. It's just too hard..." He buried his face in the crook of Minho's neck. "Everything hurts," he breathed.

Minho felt his heart break even more. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, the stiff sheets crinkling under him like paper. He couldn't stand the thought of his Newt lying on that, so he kept Newt cradled in his lap instead. "You don't have to apologize," he mumbled, tenderly caressing Newt's cheek with his fingers. "I know you're trying. I hate that you're in pain. But you never have to say you're sorry for what the Flare did to you."

Newt tipped his chin up to meet Minho's gaze, his face sallow and broken. His eyes closed as Minho's thumb stroked over his bottom lip. "I just want you to know," he murmured, "that if I had a choice, I would stay. I would stay with you forever, Min."

Forever. It seemed like such a treasured word, one Minho didn't dare to say aloud. It felt as though that single word would always stay just out of reach for them. He trailed his fingertips down Newt's neck, and still reveled in the feel of smooth skin under his touch. Even in this state, withering away in Minho's arms, Newt still held that careless beauty for Minho. He didn't see a dying patient. He saw an angel with broken wings.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, hushed. He knew he was being unfair, but he couldn't help it. "Please, love, stay with me. I'll take care of you, I swear." His hand fell down to Newt's in his lap and held it. "I'll give you anything you want, anything at all. Just get better, Newt. You can have every violin you've ever dreamed of, you can have a home, you can have me. Please."

Newt's eyes brimmed with hurt. "I'm sorry," he repeated, the two words a broken whisper in the room. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

They sat alone for a few more precious minutes.

They didn't know that this was one of their last moments together.