Chaotic Good

Cause, Dude, You Are Ripped, Bro

After the horrible mess of trying to successfully paint over everyone's tattoos and scars (and hell, Thomas is not gonna dwell on the fact that there's a scar as long as his forearm on a shucking seven-year-old) which included three watering cans, a fire hydrant, and the unfortunate demise of a rubber duck, it's safe to say that everyone is out of breath before they can even begin to walk to school.

"Seriously?" Aris groaned, looking at a mirror and trying desperately to fix his bed head. "Can't we just... not show up?"

"What," Minho poked Aris' cheek. "Your twig legs can't walk yourself to school?"

Aris swatted his hand away. "Not all of us has been running every day for literal years." He returned to combing his hair with his fingers but gave up halfway through.

"Come on, shanks," Newt called from the doorway, Thomas right behind him. "We're going to be late."

"Yes, Mom," Minho replied dutifully.

Their walk to school was in anything but silence. Jokes and stories were accompanied with large gestures and waves. Thomas soaked in it as the chatter flowed around him like water. "You 'kay there, Tommy?" Newt asked, squeezing his hand.

"Yeah," he said back. "Peachy." Just wondering how long this will last. He didn't say it out loud, but Newt seemed to hear it all the same.

The school day blurred on, filled with nothing but calculations Thomas already knew and the sound of pencils scratching on paper. It was boring and repetitive, lacking in any entertainment, and only broken by the sweet release of lunch break.

"Hey, Greenie," Frypan greeted as Thomas sat on the grass next to them.

"Hey, Fry, guys," he replied back. "What's up?"

Minho sighed dramatically and collapsed on the grass, arms and legs sprawling. "Shucking boring is what," he groaned, taking a bite of his apple. "I know you said that we would catch up fast, but seriously, how slow can these people get? It's like they need their shucking mommies to guide them through everything twice."

Gally raised his milk carton like it was a flute of champagne. "Good that." he said, and took a swig. Many people followed, Thomas included.

A few moments of silence lingered, then small talk was made. Through this, he found out that there were a couple of cute kids in classes he didn't care to remember, a few more handful of school staff that were arrested and/or dead (surprise, surprise, what else was new in Beacon Hills?), and that track tryouts were taking place in a few days time. Both Minho and him cracked up when they heard the news, while Newt just rolled his eyes fondly. Everyone else just looked confused.

Out of the blue, a loud shout interrupted their conversations. "Stiles!" Scott McCall exclaimed, running up to them as the Survivors fell silent. Up close, Thomas could see that his former best friend hadn't changed a bit. He really was still all crooked jaws and puppy eyes. "Ohmygod, Stiles! When did you come back? And who are these people? Where were you? And wow, did you work out when you were gone? Cause, dude, you are ripped, bro—"

"Scott." he said curtly, and the werewolf promptly fell silent, his face falling.

"Wait, Scott?" Minho interrupted. "As in, the Scott McCall?" At Thomas' nod of confirmation, Minho grinned. "Congrats, man, you're shucking famous!"

Thomas glanced at the Asian. What are you playing at? his eyebrows asked.

Just wait, the twitch in Minho's thumb replied.

Scott cocked his head. "I am?"

"Yeah," Minho's grin turned downright malicious. "The slinthead who shut Thomas out of their little puppy group, right?"