Disclaimer: The Maze Runner trilogy (c) James Dashner

I lost a lot of stats in the last week of August because the moderators of this site didn't bother to fix the graph glitch until the first day of September. ;w; Now I don't even know how the last chapter did because the numbers are off. Le sigh.

Have some filler while I figure out where the rest of "Trials and Tribulations" is going to go.

I like to believe this is what happens when one doesn't take care of their wounds after coitus. (especially with their experimentation)

Warning(s): Typos probably


Side Story II:
Thomas's Sick Day


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, as 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 complain, 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 whooshing 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.


Thomas was five minutes late when he finally made it to class. Professor Janson watched him like a hawk from his place by the white board, the topic for today already written neatly in black marker. He gave him a sheepish apology then shriveled into his chair, exhausted from all the running. Newt and Minho gave him a look of concern, but Thomas waved them off discreetly. No way was he going to show Newt he had caught a damn cold. He always assumed Minho would be the first of them to come down with something. He was always running in various degrees of weather, sometimes without the appropriate attire and it wasn't like he was a complete clean freak when it came to personal hygiene. Sure, Newt always told them to wash their hands after everything, but it wasn't like Minho always complied. He had cheating days! And yet, it was Thomas who catches the cold. Of course.

He caught the suspicious look Newt was tossing his way, how his dark eyes roamed over his form as though it were looking for a clue that would give away Thomas's well-being. When he didn't find it, he refocused his attention to the front of the room, but Thomas could still feel those eyes roaming. Newt was keeping an eye on him that was certain.

"Nice of you to join us Thomas," Janson greeted stiffly. "You will see me after class, of course."

"Of course," He grumbled. He sank into his chair, already miserable.

"Now then, where was I?"

Newt and Minho waited for Thomas outside the classroom ten minutes after it was done for the day. His appearance had rapidly deteriorated throughout the eighty minutes they sat in that ghastly class. By the time Thomas rejoined him, his face was screwed up in annoyance, his cheeks rosy and his bangs slightly greasy against his forehead. Newt spotted the sheen of sweat gleaming under the light of the hallway.

"You are sick!" he snapped.

Thomas jumped, startled. "No I'm not!"

Newt pulled him close before he could protested and pressed the back of his hand against the boy's sweaty temple.

"You're bloody burning Tommy! What are you doing out of bed?!"

"You're the one who—"

"Minho!" Newt whirled on the older male before Thomas could finish, his eyes blazing with determination. "Get Tommy to bed before that fever gets worse! I have class next, but I'll be comin' straight back to the dorm with medicine and soup once I'm done. Do not let him talk to you out of it, you hear me? Don't." He gave the track star a scathing glare that had the boy nodding like a bobble head.

"You got it!"

Thomas spluttered for words, but Minho was already dragging him away before he could form sentences.


"You shouldn't have gotten sick, Greenie." Minho sighed the moment they were back in the dorm. "Now Newt's going to be on both our cases."

"Stop calling me 'Greenie'." He pouted. He climbed into bed on Minho's insistence, immediately curling onto his side. "It's not like I wanted to get sick. It just woke up this way."

"That's not how Newt sees it and you know it." Minho pulled up the thinnest sheet on Thomas's bed and pressed a kiss against his sweaty temple. "I've got classes soon then track, so I'll see you at five. Want me to bring you goodies?"

"As long as you can hide it from Newt." Thomas grumbled childishly.

Minho chuckled.

"You're too cute sometimes, Greenie."

"Stop calling me Greenie!"

"Stop being such a dumbass then. I'll be back later."

Thomas watched him go forlornly.


He woke up to Newt's prodding a few hours later. He groaned in complaint, feeling worse now than he did before, if that was even possible.

"I brought medicine." The blond said. He handed Thomas a small cup of red liquid and a bottle of water. "It's cherry flavored. It'll still taste like crap but if it helps with the fever then who cares, yeah?"

Thomas grumbled again, his mind too muddled for coherent words. He gulped the vile medicine and washed it down quickly with water. Ugh, he could still taste the revolting thing on his tongue.

Newt laughed. "You are honestly too bloody adorable. If you weren't sick, I would kiss you."

"You and Minho…" Thomas sighed, embarrassed.

Newt glanced at him inquisitively. "Minho and I what?"

"Nothing," He slurred.

Thomas swayed, the room suddenly spinning. He laid back down with Newt's careful guidance and passed out before his sheets were drawn.

Newt watched him breathe, worry gnawing at his insides.


He was still asleep when Minho returned, bags from the supermarket nearby at hand.

"How's he doing?"

Newt shook his head. "Still asleep. His fever isn't going down. He hasn't moved since I got here."

"Should we wake him up to eat?"

"No, let's let him rest. He needs it."

They watched the prone figure, his chest rising and falling from a deep slumber. Minho squeezed Newt's hand as a sign of assurance and anxiety. Newt squeezed back just as tight.

"Come on," Minho began, breaking the silence. "I brought us dinner."

The blond nodded, silently grateful for Minho's strength.


Newt woke up to the weight of his bed shifting. He jerked at the feel of arms wrapping around his torso and made to pull away, but heard the disgruntled murmur of a familiar voice against his back.

"Tommy?" He whispered. He could barely make out the brunet's figure in the dark, sleepy eyes not yet adjusted.

Thomas buried his nose into Newt's back again, heaving a rattling sigh. His body trembled against the blond. Sluggishly, he realized they were chills.

"Tommy, your fever—"

"I'm freezing."

"But you're burning up…"

Thomas murmured something incoherent against his pajamas. Newt craned his neck to get a better view of his boyfriend, but gave up in seconds. Thomas's grip on him was firm despite the male's weakness. His body continued to shiver against Newt's own, gentle as it was.

He was lulled back to sleep soon after.


"Wake up Newt. Come on ya shank, wake up!"

Newt stirred into wakefulness, his body rocking uncomfortably. Thomas's grip on his torso lay limp, his skin still blazingly hot; he could feel it radiating warmth through his own clothes. Minho crouched over them, one knee pressed against the edge of the bed, his hand holding for balance.

Newt stared at him with bleary eyes confused by the sudden wake up call. It wasn't until he registered the anxiety etched in Minho's face did he realize something was wrong. He sat up suddenly, slipping out of Thomas's hold easily.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I can't wake him up."

As if to prove a point, Minho shook the sleeping brunet harshly and watched in distress as the boy lay limp in bed, his face void of discomfort. Newt sucked in a breath. He pressed a hand against the boy's head and hissed out a curse.

"He's too hot. We have to take him to the emergency room."

Minho had his shoes on before Newt could finish speaking. He scooped their unconscious boyfriend into his arms and made way for the door dressed in nothing but a white tank and blue boxers. Newt grabbed the bare necessities from the dresser and followed after, his heart hammering in his chest.


Thomas came around to a dimly lit room he didn't recognize. A rhythmic beep to his left pulled his attention, the neon green light bright in the dimness. His brain registered the heart monitor before realization set in place. He groaned, distressed and disappointed. His immune system had failed to kick that infection in the ass like he hoped it would.

Movement on his right caught his attention. He turned in time to catch Newt and Minho—Newt resting his head against Minho's shoulder-stirring awake. It took them both a moment to notice Thomas's sheepish stare and then another moment longer to realize what that meant.

They scrambled to their feet in a flurry of limbs.

"Tommy!" "Thomas!"

"You're awake!" They cried.

"You had me worried you git!"

"Geez, you can't get sick without the dramatics, can you?" Minho teased half-heartedly.

"Your fever was dangerously high," Newt said, the worry still etched in his eyes. "This is why I don't want any of us getting sick. It's dangerous!"

"How are you feeling?"

Thomas flashed them a placating smile. He felt better than he did all day. He was still sick and frail; his throat continued to ache, but his stomach grumbled in hunger for the first time today. He didn't notice he hadn't eaten anything at all that day.

"Better," He croaked. "Starving."

Newt and Minho physically settled.

"Good that," the blond sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, the relief flowing off him in waves.

Minho sat back in his chair, just as grateful. "You give me tachycardia." He admitted with a pout.

Thomas barked out a croaky laugh, much to their surprise.

"Sorry," He chuckled. "Were you guys here all this time?"

"Of course!" Newt frowned in disbelief. "We wouldn't dream of leaving you alone."

"You needed us." Minho added.

"Here," Newt handed Thomas a tray of jell-o and a plastic cup filled with water. "Eat up. It's three in the mornin', you won't be getting breakfast for a while. We can talk more after you eat."

Newt and Minho each gave him a kiss then sat back to eat their own jell-o. Thomas smiled to himself, moved by their devotion, but also happy. They loved him so dearly.


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