MEMORY ? newtmas au

01 | predementia

"Great," the other man says brightly, disappearing and returning with a chessboard. "So. White or black?"

"What's the difference?"

"Er. Well, white gets to go first, right? That's what you said."

"Oh. I don't care."

"You... can be white then, I guess," Thomas answers, endeavoring valiantly to smile. He arranges the pieces on the board. "Go ahead."

He stares at it, trying to figure out what to do-somehow it feels like it should be coming to him naturally, but right now, his mind is blank. Eventually he decides to move one of the little pieces in the front row forward one step. It seems like a safe choice.

Thomas follows suit, and for a while they sit in silence, nudging a piece here and there when it's their turn.

And then the other man stands up. "That's it," he says. "Something's wrong."

"What?"

"I'm kicking your ass. That never happens. Well, I mean, it does sometimes, but then you pull off some sort of miracle and win. But look at your pieces. They're all over the place." He walks over to Newt and grabs him by the shoulders. "Tell me what's happening."

"Nothing's happening."

"You've been acting weird for weeks. Months, really. I thought you were just, you know, getting old."

"Oh, thanks," he says sarcastically.

Thomas shakes his head. "But it's more than that. You haven't been in the mood for anything. You've been saying the bizarrest things and watching TV all the time and acting snappy and now you can't even play chess. It's scaring me."

And when he puts it that way, it scares him, too. "I-I don't know what's going on," he whispers.

The other man holds him close. "Well, Newt, I love you, and I don't want anything to happen to you. So... I think it's time we go to the hospital."

Newt closes his eyes and nods.

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He finds himself in a whirlwind of activity.

Sometimes people ask him questions about himself. It's painful because a few of those questions are about his parents. And he can't answer those.

Sometimes different people ask him questions about random things he doesn't really care about. Once they ask him to draw a clock. He doesn't see the point in it, but he does it anyway because he's scared they might plot to hurt him otherwise.

Sometimes he is stuck into a long cylinder, where he can see nothing but white and hear nothing but some sort of terrible pounding sound. He hates this part the most-the cramped space is almost more than he can bear. But Thomas is there for him when he comes out.

When everything is done, they give him some pills. Thomas reassures him that they won't kill him, and so he swallows.

Then he sleeps.

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

His eyes open, and he realizes he's in a hospital room.

He glances around. Thomas is to his left, looking anxious. "How are you feeling?" he asks, standing up as soon as he realizes the other is awake.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, moving himself into a sitting position. He can almost hear his bones creaking in protest. "Though... I can't remember what happened in the past few days."