Trials and Tribulations

Side Story III: Newt's Sick Day

To Minho and Thomas, Newt was like a ray of sunshine. He wasn't necessarily an overly optimistic kind of guy or saw the world through rose tinted glasses. In fact, Newt was rather solemn. He had a tendency of being grounded and wasn't afraid to tell them when they were being stupid or not. Sometimes, Newt got into moods where it felt like a dark, heavy cloud was following in his wake. Thomas hated those times, it made him feel like all was wrong in the world.

Newt was their stability. He would wake up in the morning, dress in the silence and kiss them goodbye. Every day, He would send them a text to get them moving if they hadn't already. He would meet up with Minho in-between morning practice and classes, and bring him a light snack. He would call up Thomas if the boy didn't respond to his text and wait for them outside of Professor Janson's class when he could.

Newt was routine. He was safe. He was comfortable. He was the sun that rose high and bright in the sky. When the sun was cloudy, the world just didn't seem right.

When Thomas woke up that Wednesday morning, something felt wrong. Gloomy. At first, he thought it was literal, the curtains were drawn over the only window in the room, casting a dark enough atmosphere to keep sleep going. His smart phone lay dark on the desk, no blinking light to alert him of a message or the shrill ringing of an incoming call. The clock on the wall read 10:00 AM and the birds outside chirped to a bright, beautiful morning, yet the cool darkness in the dorm made Thomas uncomfortable.

Perhaps it had something to do with the sizeable lump on Newt's bed?

Thomas flew into motion. His scalp nearly grazed the bottom edge of the higher bunk as he hopped haphazardly out of his blanket cocoon. He crashed spectacularly next to the single bed, startling the prone form wrapped comfortably like a burrito.

Newt's misty eyes peered down at him, his blond hair a knotted mess, his nose tinged pink.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" He complained, his voice odd. "You gave me a heart attack."

Thomas regained his bearings and sat up on the floor. He gave Newt a quick once over, taking note of the puffiness of his eyes, the redness of his nose and the nasally way his voice sounded. It meant only one thing and Thomas wasn't happy about it.

"It's 10 AM, don't you have classes at 8?"

Newt's groan cut off into a fit of dry coughs. Thomas scrambled to the mini-fridge for a water bottle. He grabbed a plastic cup from the cabinet and hurriedly poured the poor blond a drink before rejoining his side. He watched as Newt drank his fill then fell back onto the bed with a dissatisfied sigh. He gave Thomas a look he wasn't sure he could read in the dark.

"Don't you dare say it."

Thomas's brows raised in surprise. "I'm not going to."

Newt's expression turned defiant. "Tommy, I'm being serious. If you say it, Minho's going to find out and he won't let me live it down for the rest of the month. You remember how long it took to get Minho to stop making fun you for getting sick? It'll be worse for me because it's me."

He grimaced. Oh yes, Thomas did remember. Minho wouldn't let it go for two and a half weeks after he was released from the hospital. He had no doubt Newt would get teased about this for days to come, maybe even months. But more importantly, he was surprised. Minho didn't know Newt was sick?

"So Minho doesn't know you're—"

"Tommy!" Newt hissed, eyes narrowing.

Thomas rolled his eyes. He thought Newt's aversion to being called sick was cute usually, but sometimes the blond's stubbornness drove him up the wall. He saddled Newt a deadpanned expression that penetrated the dimness of their room. The older boy pouted beneath his gaze.