After Newt's terrible illness last semester, the blond made it an unspoken mission to make sure none of his roommates befell an illness like his. He urged them to sleep well, drink enough fluids and to always wash their hands before and after every meal. Thomas and Minho were good at complying, seeing as neither one of them wanted to get sick period. There was too much going on this semester, one little sick day could set them back a week if they weren't careful. They weren't going to screw themselves up thanks to a silly little cold.
So, like all things in the world, it was only a matter of time for one of them came down with a nasty germ.
Thomas woke late in the day despite going to sleep early. His night had been restless, filled with nightmarish dreams and discomfort that woke him up at random intervals. His throat felt raw—he winced every time he swallowed—and his head throbbed with such intensity he was sure it would split open. His body felt sore and feeble. Just the idea of moving made him want to pant like a marathon runner. To make matters worse, he was certain he had class today—he couldn't recall which ones—but he most definitely had class.
He coughed, his whole body flaring in pain from the spasm. With a groan of discomfort, Thomas drew the covers over his head and fell back asleep. All thoughts of classes and assignments washed out by the darkness.
The second time he awoke, it wasn't any better. He'd kicked off his blankets some time in his sleep, his body unbearably hot. He felt sweaty and listless, moving still seemed like his worst enemy. He was content in laying there, curled on his side with nothing but the wall as company and sleep as entertainment. The silence of the dorm brought on a pleasant hum in his ears. His eyelids fluttered shut, the energy to stay awake now waning, as the soft hum of his own mind lulled him back into a gentle slumber.
The shrill ring of his text tone jolted him into consciousness. He groaned.
Thomas forced his body to move. He winced in complaint, lethargic muscles screaming until he grabbed his phone from the desk. It was a message from Newt.
"Fuck."
Where are you?
Thomas glanced at the time: 12:55 PM, five minutes until Professor Janson's class (because it had to be Rat Man's class. God forbid Thomas got sick on any other day that wasn't English day.) Not only did he sleep the whole morning, but he was going to be late for the one class he shared with his roommates.
He sat up with a grunt, his head suddenly swimming. His phone rang again—another message from Newt:
You're late Tommy.
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, wincing at the grate in his throat. It felt like sandpaper scraping against his tonsils. He was sure he sounded worse than it felt.
Gonne be late. Just woke up.
He barely set the phone down when Newt's message came wooshing back.
What? You JUST woke up?? You had classes today. Are you sick?? >=(
Thomas felt his body stiffen in alarm.
I'm not sick! He wrote back hastily then hurried to change. His phone rang again, Minho's name flashing on the screen, but he had no time to read it. He was already scrambling out the door.
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