-Angels Die Softly-

-Hiiii, beautiful readers! This fanfic, omg. It will be my pride and joy, I can already tell. I'm so excited to write it. This is a modern au story, with a bunch of short chapters about Minho as a volunteer at a hospital, and Newt as a (somewhat-sassy) patient, with the Flare. I've been WAITING to put this idea down on paper, and I'm so glad it's here! Yay! :D

A few warnings: may change rating. I honestly don't know if anything M-rated will end up in here. Probably not, but just in case, I'm telling you about it now. Also, in this story, Newt is dying of the Flare, even if his medications make it a comfortable, more peaceful death. This might not have a happy ending for our couple, but I don't know yet.

You have been warned; now read this thing already! Reviews=love :)-

"I think I love you

but don't even know you..."

-Gavin DeGraw, Best I Ever Had

Minho wasn't sure if he liked hospitals or not.

They always had that too-clean smell hanging in the air, like the staff was trying extra hard to erase death and pain from the walls. It was bright too, with those fluorescent lights and white walls. He was nearly blinded every time he walked through the doors. Which wasn't all that often. But today, he found himself walking through those doors, and then going even farther, following one of the nurses back down a discreet hallway.

The glowing sign above the double doors they entered through read THE FLARE.

"So have you done this kind of thing before?" the nurse asked. She looked back over her shoulder to flash him a kind smile. She was only a bit older than him, with long, autumn-brown hair and hazel eyes. Her name tag stated that her name was Brenda.

"Only once," Minho answered, focusing on the mint-green of her shirt so that he wouldn't get lost in the turns of the hallway. "But it was for a short time. I had to move away and the hospital was too far away to drive to."

"I see." She nodded importantly. "But hey, here you are again. It's always so nice to see people who're willing to do this."

"Well, someone has to, right?"

"Sadly, yes. It's a shame. But the patients who don't have any family left always love getting visitors to cheer them up. Makes them feel better."

One side of Minho's mouth turned up in a smile and he went back to scanning the rooms as they passed. Each one was concealed by a heavy metal door. Some doors were locked shut, the frosted glass of the lone window hiding whatever was inside. Others were ajar, giving glimpses of water glasses on bedside tables or bottles of medication. Minho wondered how many of them had no loved ones left, and relied on volunteering strangers like him to make their lives happier. Brenda was right. It was sad.

"All right, here we are," Brenda announced, snapping him out of his thoughts. She'd stopped next to a door near the end of the hallway, turning to smile at Minho. The door, unlike some others, was wide open. But from this angle, Minho couldn't see inside yet. Brenda leaned forward and called inside, "your lovely visitor's here!"

The sour reply was, "whatever."

Minho raised his eyebrows and Brenda heaved a long sigh. "Please, try to be POLITE," she replied to the stranger witheringly. This time, she received a noncommittal snort.

"He sounds...interesting," Minho managed.

"Yes, well." Brenda scratched the top of her head, then ran her fingers back through her hair. "He's younger than most of the others here. He didn't expect to get the Flare so fast, or to have one of the more serious strains of it. It's hard on him and I think he isolated himself here. He's just so lonely." She took a step toward him and lowered her voice. "His grandparents passed away a while ago and his parents died in a car crash. He never talks about it, to anyone. But you should know before you go in there."

Minho suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to go in there. This guy sounded like he didn't even WANT a friend in the first place. He gave Brenda an uncertain look. "Does he even want me here?" he asked.

"NO," came the voice from the bedroom.

Brenda rolled her eyes dramatically and scolded loudly, "BEHAVE PLEASE." Then she turned her attention back to Minho. "I don't think he does," she replied, even though it was a bit obvious. "But he needs someone. Isolation isn't healthy for him."

"I can tell," he muttered under his breath. This guy sounded like he couldn't care less whether Minho visited him or got hit by a bus.

Brenda patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry. He'll warm up to you. You'll see." With a final smile, she was gone, heading back the way they'd come.

Minho half-wanted to follow her out and say that he'd changed his mind. Sure, he was all for volunteering and helping people out. He'd done it before, with a little girl named Katherine, back at the old White Glade Hospital. He'd loved entertaining that bright seven-year-old, making her laugh and telling her stories. But getting a new job farther away as an art instructor meant he had to move. He'd missed helping people. So yes, he liked volunteering. He just hadn't expected to have to help out...THIS particular person.

Well, he thought to himself, you got yourself into this and you wanted to help. So get your ass in there. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the open doorway of the stranger's room. The first thing he saw was the case sitting at one wall. It was a curious little thing, all sleek and shiny. It was a smallish, instrument's case, black with silver around lid. The size and shape hinted at a violin. Minho hadn't known that anyone here had brought their belongings like this one. He wondered if the patient played anymore. Then he glanced up at the bed in the center of the room. His eyes were drawn immediately to a flash of blonde and when he saw the person sitting there, he lost his thoughts for a moment.

The boy in the hospital bed, reclining on a pile of pillows, was an utter angel. His rakishly tousled hair was the color of shining, golden tinsel. He had eyes like the ocean during thunderstorms, a sinful, deep blue. His skin was pale, of course, from the sickness attacking his body and faint rims ringed his eyes. He was thin too. Sickly, slim, and a tad bit rude. He didn't sound like Minho's type. But the lines of his shoulders were curving brushstrokes under the blue hospital-style shirt and the way he moved hinted at a fluidity no one else had. Whether he wanted to or not, Minho founded himself gawking at the boy.

The boy had his arms crossed indignantly over his chest, head cocked in a way that stated: I'd rather talk to the walls of this room than you. He then proceeded to speak in a heart-melting, musical British accent. "I hope you don't plan on showing up to stare at me every bloody day."

Minho realized what he was doing and mentally scolded himself. This was a complete STRANGER. (well, an unbelievably attractive stranger, but still) He had to pull himself together. "No, that wasn't exactly what I had in mind," he spoke up, with a half-grin.

"Good, because you won't believe how many people stare at you here like they think you'll die in the next thirty seconds." The boy released a rough sigh and shifted his gaze pointedly away from Minho. Maybe he thought the other boy would leave.

He was wrong. Minho cleared his throat. "Well, um," he began uneasily, "do you mind if I sit down?" He gestured at a chair set up beside the bed.

The boy lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Go ahead."

Minho tried not to feel too uncomfortable as he rounded the bed and took the chair's back in his hands. Moving it to a better position, he added, "I'm Minho, by the way," just to fill the silence. He was just beginning to sit down when the boy spoke again.

"Newt."

Minho blinked. "What?"

"I said, Newt." The boy didn't even bother to look at him. "It's my name."

Minho couldn't only stare at him incredulously. "Your REAL name?" he couldn't help asking.

"No, god no, of course not. My real name's Isaac Newton, but if you ever call me THAT, I'll throw you out the bloody window. I don't care how sick I am, I'll manage it."

For some reason, Minho decided he liked this guy. He had to hold back laughter at the dry statement. Leaning back in his seat, he studied the boy, Newt. Maybe it had been weird to ogle him the way Minho had, but he really was stunning. Up close, you could see how his hair flopped over his eyes, and the tiny sweeps of his eyelashes. It was hard to believe how ill he was. They must've had him using some strong medication.

The quiet stretched between them. The lonely sound of a clock ticking on the wall was the only thing to break the heavy air. Minho didn't like this at all, but he had no idea how to begin speaking to Newt. Newt had made it clear that he hadn't wanted anyone to visit him. Maybe this was a bad idea... Minho took a breath anyway. "So, what do you—?"

"Before you say anything else," Newt cut him off abruptly, "I want you to know that I know exactly how these things work."

Minho stared. "...huh?"

Newt huffed out a breath. "Listen. I know what guys like you do. You come in, ask me about my sickness, talk about me WITH me for however long it takes for me to die or miraculously be cured, and then you move on. Maybe you'll give me some kind of crap about how I shouldn't give up fighting or whatever, but it's all just to make my 'final moments' bearable. To make the whole process easier, I'll just tell you it all now: yes, I have the Flare, yes, it's fatal, I'll probably live for another year, if I'm lucky, yes, my family's all dead, yes, the Flare hurts, everything hurts, all the time, and no, I'm not depressed, I'm just in a very bad mood that 's lasted for the entire year I've been in here." After this little speech, he continued to glare at the floor like it had been the reason he was so annoyed.

Minho sat there with his mouth hanging slightly open for a few moments. He knew, right then, that he'd never met someone quite like Newt. He was, to put it frankly, a pain in the ass. But there was something there. Something captivating, something he saw in that violin case at the wall and in the heaviness of Newt's voice. He couldn't explain it, exactly. But it was real. Finally, he replied, "...I just wanted to know what you played."

Now, Newt glanced at him, finally, those blue eyes coming like a shock to your senses. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What I play?" he echoed.

Minho nodded. "I mean, I saw the case," he replied, pointing at that black instrument case.

Newt looked at it like he'd just noticed it was there. He hadn't expected someone to care about anything other than his sickness or how sad he was about it. "Oh," he said, maybe with a hint of embarrassment. "It's a violin."

"I thought so." Minho rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. "How long have you had it?"

"Um. Since I was eight. Or seven. I can't remember."

"Wow, so you must be really good."

"...I'm all right."

"Do you still play?"

"Not much. Sometimes, the Flare can give you episodes, I guess. My hands shake too much to play anything right."

"Oh, okay." Minho let it at that and a more comfortable silence claimed the room this time.

Newt studied Minho as though he'd never seen anything like him before. He looked like he couldn't decide whether he was irritated or not. "What're you doing?" he asked suddenly.

Minho's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, that's it? You just wanted to know about my violin?" Newt searched Minho's face for some kind of catch. "You don't care about the Flare or the tiny fact that I'm dying?"

Minho chuckled and simply said, "there's more to life than dying, Newt."

Now it was Newt's turn to stare.