AN ACTUAL UPDATE OMG

Warning(s): You bet your ass it's typos. And other shit, probably.

Part X

He needed to tell them, sooner rather than later, but what could he say to them? How to approach the subject? He was uncomfortable with talking about himself so personally, even with his boyfriends.

The migraine intensified with every step he hook. He rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to assuage the pain. He was halfway back to the dorm when someone called his name.

Janson stood by the doorway of his classroom, eyes expectantly on Thomas. The brunet sagged. Of all the days to see the Lit Professor, it had to be on a day he was meant to be off.

"Thomas, glad I could catch you. If you would be so kind as to spare a few minutes of your time?"

"Actually I—"

"It's about your roommates." He added nonchalantly.

Thomas felt his heart stutter.

He followed Janson into the empty classroom, the doors clicking shut behind him.

"It's come to my attention that your studies have been… subpar."

Thomas tensed, the migraine pulsing like a jack hammer in his head.

"I've gotten high grades in all your assignments, Professor."

Janson scrolled to his desk, his movements slow and methodical. He dug into his suitcase and pulled out a pile of papers. He splayed them across the desk for Thomas to see, each assignment obnoxiously lengthy and stained with red ink. The papers bore his name on the upper right corner, his high grade written in the same bloody red ink despite the various commentaries and corrections littering the cover pages.

"I've had the pleasure of teaching you for two semesters now, Thomas. Your earlier works were impeccable." Janson licked his lips, blue eyes steady on the boy. "Yes, you have received the highest grade out of all my students, but your classmates are… shall we say… dumber than dirt." He shrugged, like insulting his students meant nothing to him. Thomas wouldn't be surprised if it didn't. "Unfortunately, this also stems to your roommates."

He tossed a series of packets onto the table, all of them ruined by his notorious red ink. They were worse off than Thomas'. Minho and Newt's name stared back at him from the sheets, their grades just as glaringly bright. He knew they tried hard in his class, but Rat Man's assignments were cruel and unfair to anyone who didn't have a knack for English.

The rush of anger came so unexpectedly, Thomas fell into a chair to keep him from growing dizzy. He rubbed his palms against his tired eyes, his migraine momentarily blinding him.

"Okay," He breathed. His muscles began to tremble. "What are you proposing Professor?"

"Your living arrangements concern me, Thomas. You've become… unwell since the semester started and then there are all these rumors…"

"Rumors?" He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

"It's of no concern what your roommates do on their free time, but when my star pupil begins to hand in horrendous work, one has to wonder." Janson's blue eyes bore deep into Thomas. "Thomas, I understand college is stressful, especially for a prestigious school such as WCKD U., but if you continue to let carnal desires hinder you from work, I'll have no choice but to request a change of rooms with the head of housing."

Thomas bolted from his chair fast as lightning; his hands slammed down hard on the table, the loud bang reverberating off the walls.

"You can't do that!" He hissed through gritted teeth. "I have the highest grade in all of my classes. I've done nothing but pass everything you've given me with flying colors! Minho and Newt don't hinder me in anyway, professor, in fact I think I'm a lot better off living with them than last semester. What I do with my boyfriends is no one's business but mine!"

Jansons's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Boyfriends?"

Thomas straightened, horrified. He hadn't meant to admit that in front of Janson. His heart quickened as anxiety pooled uncomfortably into his chest. The migraine from before pulsed in vengeance.

He took a deep, shaky breath.

"What I do outside your classroom is none of your business. Now, if you will excuse me, I have better things to do with my Saturday."

He hurried out the door without a glance back.

The anxiety clawed at his insides as he walked, his migraine unbearable. He threw up into a bush the moment he escaped the building and hung over the rail to regain his senses. He tried reaching Newt and Minho, but neither one of seemed inclined on answering their phones.

It made his heart ache.

He didn't know where they were or remember any of their plans for today. The thought of them out together pushed into his mind once or twice.

Bitterness curled his stomach.

He pictured them out for a stroll, the colorful leaves falling around them. He pictured Newt leaning onto Minho, their hands intertwined, smiles on their faces. Their phones would ring, Newt's first then Minho's, but neither of them would reach out to answer because they knew who it was on the other line.

He was being ridiculous and he needed to stop.

He made the long journey back to the dorms, sick to his stomach and sweaty from fever. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and pretend the day had never existed. He wanted to forget about his troubles, his talk with Janson and Teresa's advice.

He just wanted to sleep.

The room was ablaze with light, the TV unbearably loud. Thomas grimaced from the sensory overload. The trickle of nausea returned to his throw, his stomach already churning.

Minho's bright face didn't do anything to alleviate the sickness.

"Hey shank! Welcome home."

He and Newt were cuddling on Newt's bed, wrapped in a throw blanket for warmth and the TV flickering with lights from a movie. The volume had been turned down now that Thomas was home.

The thought of where they were crossed his mind again.

"Where've you been? We wanted to take you somewhere special today."

"I called." He answered monotonously. He stripped off his sweatshirt and crawled into his bunk, grateful for the shade.

He missed the quiet exchange between his boyfriends.

"Tommy—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"So you're gonna sulk on your bed like a little kid?" Minho scowled, the distaste evident in his tone.

Thomas felt the rage a lit inside him again, the pulsing of his migraine intensifying. He whirled on them, the room spinning. He sent them a scathing glare despite feeling like he could keel over at any second.

"You're starting shit with me? ME? After I tried to call and you both ignored me?! Really Minho? What was so important no one could get back to me?!"

"My phone wasn't charged you slinthead." Minho snapped. He gestured to the black phone on the desk, its screen devoid of lights. "And Newt was trying to get his work done. We didn't hear the phone, sorry. Sheesh. What's the big deal?"

Thomas wanted to throw something at him – his phone being the closest thing within reach – but the admission that Minho was with Newt had knocked the anger from his mind. Instead, he wilted like a flower devoid of water, the sickness weighing him down. He didn't want to talk anymore.

He fell back into the mattress and curled onto his side, his muscles heavy and oddly lethargic.

He expected to hear the TV return or the hushed conversations of Minho and Newt talking about him and his childish jealousy. What he got instead was the sound of movement and felt his mattress dip with the weight of another. Minho's arms wrapped around him. His body molded against Thomas like a missing piece to a puzzle and planted a soft kiss against the clammy skin on the boy's neck.

More movement told Thomas Newt had joined them on the bed, the three of them now squeezed onto the bottom bunk.

"You're sick." Minho murmured against his skin. "I'm sorry. I should've seen that."

"It's just a migraine."

"Get some rest then," Newt suggested from behind Minho, his voice gentle. "We could all use a nap."

Minho pulled Thomas into him, burying his nose into the boy's hair.

Thomas drifted to sleep before either of them, lulled into a dreamless slumber by Minho's soft breathing and his warmth.

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