Trials and Tribulations

Epilogue

"Here's the last one," Thomas grunted as he dropped a heavy brown box in front of the closet door. He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, his arms worn from a busy day of heavy lifting. He collapsed to the floor, a pained, exhausted wheeze escaping his throat as he sprawled onto his back. His entire body pulsed, sweaty and uncomfortable. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this tired. The thought of a delicious hot bath brought a moan to his lips.

Newt snorted. "Do you have to do that every time we move?"

"Do what?"

"Sprawl on the floor like you're bloody dying? They're only boxes."

"Heavy boxes," Thomas retorted. "And yes Newt. I must. It's tradition."

"Since when?"

"Since just now. Please let me die. It hurts to talk."

A clumped roll of tape smacked Thomas on his sweaty forehead. The brunet craned his neck, catching sight of his upside down blond lover ripping off another strip of tape from a box.

"That was unnecessary." He pouted.

Newt rolled his eyes again, the ghost of a smirk dancing on his lips. "You spent the summer jogging with Minho. I refuse to believe you're so out of shape because a few boxes were heavy."

"I climbed three flights of stairs with those boxes, Newt! I am dead." Thomas fell flat against the floor again, his arms stretched across the carpeted floor. He heard the sounds of tape being crinkled up into a ball and braced himself for another assault, but none came.

He eyed Newt again.

"You should have taken the elevator."

Thomas blinked.

"We have an elevator?"

Swift as lightning, Newt threw another ball of tape at Thomas. It smacked the boy on the forehead again then bounced off to the side somewhere. Thomas grumbled.

He watched silently as Newt sorted out their toiletries from the box he was working on. He couldn't see from his place on the floor, but Thomas imagined Newt separated the items based on who owned what and what type of product it was. He scoffed. Honestly, out of the three of them, most of the box's contents were Minho's hair care products. Facial creams, five different types of hair gels, a de-frizz diffuser—all Minho's. And what did Thomas have? A toothbrush and deodorant. He didn't even have a brush!

"Why does Minho need so much skin products? There's nothing wrong with his face."

"That's because I use so much skin products, shank," Minho replied.

The older boy filed into the room with the very last of their moving bags. He dropped them carelessly into a corner, though he winced when one of the duffle bags landed heavily on their box of electronics. Newt shot him a dangerous glare but returned to sorting out their bath bottles.

"Sorry man. If anything's broken in there, I'll buy you a replacement."

"Yeah, you bloody better." Newt huffed.

Minho turned to Thomas then. He eyed the boy's position, took note of Thomas' spread out arms, how his chest heaved slowly from breathing. But most importantly, Thomas saw the way Minho's eyes lit up the moment he spotted the sliver of skin peeking out from beneath Thomas' rumbled up shirt. A devious smirk broke across Minho's face.

Thomas tensed. "Minho don't!"

"Minho yes!" He laughed.

The athlete dived into Thomas before he could escape and peppered his sweaty flesh with obnoxious, wet kisses. Long, slender fingers danced along the side of Thomas' ribs mercilessly. Thomas exploded into breathy laughter. He struggled feebly against Minho's weight, his breathless pleas for help falling on deaf ears.

Newt tried not to laugh. He didn't want to fuel Minho's dastardly behavior nor did he want to become the next victim of Minho's spontaneous tickle attack, but the sight of a red-faced, teary-eyed Thomas flailing beneath Minho's athletic frame made something pleasantly warm erupt in his chest. He shook his head, cheeks aching from smiling too much.

Minho captured Thomas' lips for a passionate, deep kiss before he climbed back to his feet.

"Protect yourself shank. Don't wanna leave yourself vulnerable in front of me." He grinned smugly.

Thomas buried his face in his hands, embarrassed beyond belief and dangerously warm.

Minho's dark eyes honed in on Newt like a predator marking his next prey.

Newt stilled.

"Don't you dare," He challenged. He reached for his back pocket and whipped out a box cutter. "I will bloody cut you!"

Minho snorted. "No, you wouldn't. It's not even open."

Before Newt could come up with a reply, Thomas pounced onto the unsuspecting athlete. They swayed to the nearest bed and crashed into the mattress in a display of clumsy limbs. The toiletries Newt had painstakingly sorted scattered everywhere. Some clattered to the floor while others vanished behind dark nook and crannies.

(Newt made a mental note to get his shuck-faced boyfriends to fish those out later.)

"You dropped your guard!" Thomas laughed. "Never turn your back on an enemy!"

"You sneaky shank!" Minho cried. He bucked against Thomas' weight in the hopes of flinging the thinner boy off, but Thomas was like a spider, clinging onto Minho's muscular body for dear life.

Thomas pinned Minho's hands over his head and straddled the older boy's waist with powerful thighs. He shot Newt a silent plea, struggling to keep his hold on Minho, who gained more momentum against his confinement.

To Minho's chagrin, Newt jumped into the fray.

Together they tickled Minho into submission. He wiggled and kicked, tried to knock them off the bed with his strength, but with Thomas pinning him down and Newt's fingers assaulting his sides, Minho caved. They didn't stop until he was gasping for air and streaming tears from his eyes. Red face and utterly defeated, Thomas finally released Minho's hands and high-fived Newt in victory.

"Bastards," Minho panted. "Both of ya."

Thomas and Newt curled into him, their bodies warm and comforting despite the sweat from the day's labors. Minho wrapped his arms around them, holding them close.

"Thanks for talking me into going back to school." He said after a while.

"Like we woulda left you behind."

Thomas rested his head against Minho's burly shoulder. "and thanks for coming back home with me. You guys didn't have to do that."

"We wanted to," Newt said, his voice soft. "We're in this together."

"Damn right." Minho sniffed. "Ain't no one getting in our way. Not Janson, not stress, not sickness—no one."

He squeezed them affectionately, never wanting to let go.

"Oh for the love of—"

All eyes turned to Gally. He stood by the doorway, one hand covering his eyes while Alby held a thumbs up over the boy's shoulder.

"Can you three stop being gay for five seconds? Jesus! I'm almost glad I won't have to see you three shanks this semester."

"Likewise Gally," Minho muttered. "Though, I'm gonna miss messin' with your head."

Gally rolled his eyes, though there was no malice in his expression.

"We just came by to let you shanks know Gally and I were gonna head out. Our flight leaves at 6 and it's a long ride to the airport from here."

"Alright. Hold on, we're coming." Newt said.

He untangled himself from Minho's grip and grabbed the car keys from the only dresser in the dorm.

Thomas protested, his muscles screaming, but he rolled out of bed and followed his boyfriends out of the dorm and into the light of a new day.