Posting up two chapters tonight because this is the second time I've posted Minho's Sick Day. It was too early when I first uploaded in the timeline but now after the last chapter, it's finally time to place this.

Side Story IV: Minho's Sick Day

Before Newt and Thomas came along, Minho's first love was track. It'd been something he was good at since childhood, but didn't decide to make anything of it until high school. It'd taken him a while to come to that decision, but he'd done it, stuck with it through his high school years and earned a scholarship thanks to his athleticism.

Every morning, just after dawn, Minho would wake up with Newt, kiss the lump sack that was Thomas goodbye and head to morning practice. Sometimes, he would arrive earlier than his teammates and spend the next thirty minutes doing warm ups and lamenting his decision to not grab breakfast with Newt. Sometimes, when Newt felt particularly kind, he would meet up with him before classes and give him a snack, but most mornings Minho fended for himself. He did this every day, in rain or shine, through gusty winds or fluttering snow.

That Friday morning had been a nasty one. The winds were fierce, rain turned to ice and the track field was covered in sleet. The walkways around campus were hazardous and the visibility non-existent. Classes were cancelled for most that day—only the most stubborn of professors to host a lecture, i.e. Professor Janson—and practice for all sports teams were called off, including volleyball which was mostly spent inside.

But Minho was a stubborn fool. He woke up bright and early, dawned on the WCKED U hoodie, threw on a pair of sweats, wrapped a scarf around his neck and was out the door with his running shoes in seconds. When he returned to the dorm nearly two hours later, soaked to the bone from the icy rain and shivering all over, Newt gave him the lecture of a lifetime. As punishment, he refused to acknowledge Minho's existence for the rest of the day after that. He had even dragged Thomas into it. Needless to say, Minho sulked in the corner of the room for the duration of the day.

That Saturday morning, as the sun rose slowly beyond the fresh horizon, Thomas felt nice and snug inside his warm cocoon blanket when a loud sneeze ripped through the air. He jerked awake, heart pounding in terror. He frantically scanned the dimly lit dorm in search of the source, his mind reeling. Nothing stood out in the dimness of the room, just the light breaths of his sleeping roommates and the distant chirp of the early morning birds.

He re-scanned Newt's side of the room for anything he may have missed, but all he saw was the limp form of the blond, dead to the world and ear plugs in place. Saturdays were their lazy days. If Newt had to wake up at an ungodly hour everyday then Saturdays and Sundays were the two days he wanted to sleep past 6 AM. (Not that it mattered. He would just wake up two hours after, but whatever. Newt was Newt.) The ear plugs were a nice investment, one Thomas was regretting on skimming.

Gravity lured him back to his pillow, the adrenaline from his earlier scare now ebbing away. He was just about to fall asleep when another sneeze tore through the air, followed by a phlegm riddled cough. A gruff curse topped off the spiel and now Thomas was sitting upright in his bunk, brows furrowed in concern.

The bunk frame wobbled in movement. Minho climbed down the ladder with careful steps, his ebony hair a bird's nest of crazy; his expression sour. He didn't acknowledge Thomas's presence in the dark from the ladder, or hear the boy crawl out of bed as he wandered on heavy feet into the kitchenette. It wasn't until Minho grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and cold medicine did he register the brunet's appearance next to him.

He squeaked embarrassingly high, nearly sending his supplies to the floor.

"THOMAS!" He rasped angrily, gripping the containers tight in his fists. "What the hell man?! It's too damn early for you to give me tachycardia!"

Thomas gave his boyfriend an apologetic smile. "Sorry, didn't mean to. I'm light on my feet."

"Shuck it you dork. God." He breathed. He gave Thomas a calculating look. He tried to hide the medicine bottle as discreetly as he could from the boy's line of sight, but the effort was for naught. Thomas had already seen.

"What are you doing awake? It's almost 7:30. You're usually dead until 10."

"Your sneezing woke me up."

Minho snorted or at least attempted to. The sound came across more like a snotty gurgle. The wince that crossed the older boy's face gave Thomas the impression he swallowed a nasty bit of phlegm.

"I did not sneeze. You must be hearing things."

"No, I heard you sneeze. The heart attack I woke up to is proof enough."

The quiet, half-wheezing, half-liquid laugh Minho forced out made Thomas want to bristle. Of course he'd try to deny it! Minho bugged every one of them about their colds, god forbid they ended up even. He gave Thomas a pat on his shoulder, squeezing it tight in a mixture of affection and assurance.

"Oh Thomas, Thomas—my silly little shuck faced Thomas—I do not get sick. I'm in my prime. I'm healthy, I run every day. I don't get sick." He broke into a fit of coughs then, each one a little rougher than the last.

Newt shifted in his sheets, but remained asleep. Minho watched the prone figure for a moment before removing his arm away from his mouth. Thomas eyed him, his expression impassive.

"You were saying?"

Minho sniffed. "Not a cold."

"You're sick."

"It's allergies."

Thomas stole the cold medicine out of Minho's grasp and pointed to it pugnaciously. "Sick."

Dark brown eyes danced from the cherry flavored bottle of liquid crap to the unamused brown of Thomas's eyes. The sulky pout was on Minho's lips before he knew it.

"Okay, maybe I'm a little sick."

"A little? It sounds like you have phlegm in your lungs, Minho. You might have gotten pneumonia."

"Thomas, you're a Liberal Arts major. What do you know?"

"Correction: I changed it to Science and for your information, I happen to know a lot!"

Minho chuckled. He poured himself the correct dose of Robutessin then downed it in a gulp. He chugged the cool water quickly, still scowling at the after taste that lingered on his tongue. Once he was done, Thomas pointed to his bottom bunk, earning him a raised brow from the boy in question.

"Your bed?"

"Yeah. It's easier for Newt and I to watch you if you're on ground level." Thomas explained. He felt his cheeks heat up beneath Minho's impish scrutiny. "W-what?"

The older boy hummed coyly. He drew closer to Thomas, his gaze intensifying. "Oh, I just think it's interesting that you want me so close to you is all." He pulled Thomas closer, their waists flushed together, hands on his ass. "Just makes me wonder if you're…expecting something a little more, y'know?" Minho leaned in, tilting his head sideways the way he would when he was about to steal a kiss, but Thomas gently shoved him away, heat coursing through his veins.

He ignored the childish pout on the older boy's face.

"Stop trying to seduce me. You're going back to bed until Newt wakes up and then we're going to figure out what to do from there. It's Saturday morning, so our options are limited for any possible doctor appointments."

Minho grumbled. He broke out into another series of hacking coughs. He crawled dejectedly into Thomas's bed, muttering complaints the whole time. Thomas reached for the blankets, hoping to tuck the boy in, but Minho grabbed onto his wrist and pulled him into the mattress. He curled around the shorter male, nuzzling his nose into his chest with a content sigh. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, holding him close for a second time that hour.

Thomas sighed in defeat. "Go to sleep Minho."

A content moan was his only response.

He woke up to a discomforting wave of heat and someone running their fingers on his side. Miho's face was still buried in his chest, those well-toned arms tight around him. The boy was heavily asleep, his breathing deep and body limp. Behind him, Thomas realized, was another body pressed snug against his. He didn't need to check to know it was Newt.

The blond laid flush against his back, head propped up on his hand. His free hand roamed along the curvature of Thomas's frame, slender fingers tracing light patterns on top of his pajamas. It felt ticklish against his flesh.

"Mornin'," He whispered affectionately, snuggling his nose just behind Thomas's ear. "What a fantastic sight to wake up to."

"Mm… what time is it?"

"Time for you to wake up." He purred. He placed a tender kiss just behind the boy's ear.

Thomas turned, mouth opening to retort when Newt's soft lips captured his. He pulled away quickly, quirking them into a smile at the boy's bashful expression.

"Come on," he urged, tapping his arm. "It's Saturday, let's grab breakfast and see what Alby and the others are doing. Wake up ya shank!"

He nudged Minho's arm with enough strength to ruffle the athlete. He groaned in annoyance, burying his face deeper into Thomas's torso.

Newt sighed.

Thomas gave him a pacifying smile. "Don't be so hard on him today. He's sick."

Newt's eyes immediately narrowed. "He's sick?"

Before Thomas got a chance to reply, Newt reached across the bed and smacked Minho hard on the bicep. The track runner jerked into wakefulness, a gargled yelp escaping his lips. Newt pinned him down with a hard glare.

"Tommy says you're sick. Tell me he's wrong."

"He's wrong."

"Hey!"

"You are sick!" Newt snapped reproachfully. "What did I tell you about running in that weather yesterday Minho?!"

"Absolutely nothing. You were asleep."

"Minho!"

"Alright! Fine! So I'm sick. There's nothing we can do about it now. Can we just get over it so you guys can nurse me back to health?" Minho pouted.

"Oh no, no, no! We aren't nursing you back to health." Newt grabbed Thomas's arm and pulled him closer his way. "Tommy and I are going to grab breakfast. You—" He pressed a finger hard against Minho's broad chest. "—are going to lay here and wallow in your sickness."

"No way!" He cried. His voice cracked at the high octave. "You're not leaving me here alone. I'm coming with."

"No, you're probably contagious. You'll get everyone else sick."

Minho grabbed onto Thomas's left arm and pulled him right out of Newt's grasp.

"Then Thomas stays with me! We took a nap together, he's probably already sick. And if he's not—" Minho yanked the boy's chin upwards, pressed his mouth against his and shoved his tongue inside.

Newt balked in horror as Minho pulled away, a trail of saliva stretching between their lips. Thomas sat there, stunned, embarrassed and slightly grossed out—not because of the action, but because he remembered Minho was sick. The Asian stuck out his tongue childishly at Newt.

"Now my germs will take over Thomas's body and we'll be sick together."

"That's bloody disgusting," Newt grimaced. He yanked the boy again, disorienting him. "But there's still hope. Come on Tommy!"

Minho latched on for dear life, sniffling grossly. A look of repulsion crossed Newt's face again. (Thomas couldn't blame him, he was sure they were all going to get sick at this rate.)

"It's too late Newt, I've already claimed him! He's mine!"

"He's not sick yet slinthead! I can still save him!"

They tugged him back and forth like a ragdoll, bickering as children would over a beloved toy. Thomas felt nauseous, their chaotic pulling disquieting his empty stomach. Their argument raised in volume as the minutes wore on. This time, Newt pressed Thomas firmly against his chest as he shoved Minho away with his foot.

The athlete suddenly pounced then.

He collided into the two of them with enough force, they fell off the edge of the bed and crashed to the ground with a loud thud. The air was squeezed out of Thomas's lungs, Minho's weight crashing down on him tenfold, making it hard to breathe.

Newt groaned from under them, irritation marring his face.

Minho let out a victorious laugh that immediately morphed into coughs again. He loomed over them once he was done, cheeks read from the extortion, his lips set into a haughty smile.

"I really like this position, shanks." He croaked. "Trapped under my weight, submissive to my needs." As if to prove a point, he rotated his hips experimentally, rubbing his groin against the mounds of Thomas's butt.

The brunet twitched. Heat coursed through his blood again, though he wasn't sure if it was from arousal or anger. He tried to shoot Minho an annoyed glower, but found he couldn't move much to give him the full effect.

A cough sounded from the entrance. The trio stilled, wide eyes cautiously turning towards the door. Teresa smiled at them from the doorway, her hand still on the handle. Behind her stood Aris, a look of disturbance marring his face and Alby, who watched them with raised brows. They stared at each other for a good ten seconds before Minho cleared his phlegm soaked throat.

"Sorry guys, Newt and Thomas will meet up with you all later. I'm a little sick and these shanks promised to nurse me back to health."

"That's sweet of them," Teresa smiled, an amused twinkle sparkling in her eyes. "We'll see you all later then. Get better Minho." Her eyes connected with Thomas's for a moment. She flashed him a discreet wink before closing the door shut behind them.

Minho collapsed on top of them with a dramatic sigh.

"Now that you're both free—nurse me back to health."

Newt grumbled. Thomas groaned. Again, Minho's heavy weight made it nearly impossible to breathe.

Minho flashed them both a bright victorious smile. He sneezed suddenly, mucous and spit splattering his sleeve.

"Ugh!"

"Gross."

"That's attractive," Minho sniffed. "Sorry."

"Just get off already!" They pleaded desperately.

The athlete huffed, discontent with their attitude, but also amused. He had a laundry list of petty torture he wanted them to suffer before the weekend was through, not because he wanted them to suffer for the sake of suffering, but as revenge for the anxiety he went through during their times of sickness.

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