Chapter Text
"Shh---uck," Thomas slurred. He turned out the pockets of his jacket and his jeans. No sign of his keys to be found. He felt like beating down the door to his dorm room and although he certainly had the rage for it, his energy levels were dangerously low and all he really wanted was to go to sleep. It took him ten minutes - and two wrong attempts - to find the door of his best mate, and his only plan B.
He knocked loudly on it twice. Nothing for several minutes. He leaned against the wall to keep himself upright. After another minute he lifted his fist to pound on the wood again, but just as his hand came down the door opened and Thomas stumbled forward a step. He straightened again in a second and nearly groaned at the sight before him.
Not his friend. Not even close.
"Where's Minho?" Thomas barely mumbled out in his exhaustion.
The blonde boy standing before him, who seemed even taller than usual in Thomas's distorted state, was frowning deeply, "The bloody hell would I know; he went out with you tonight didn'he."
He didn't say it as a question, more like an accusation. Thomas covered his face with a hand in frustration, he'd been sure Minho would have been home by now. Although knowing Minho... It didn't make all that much sense come to think of it.
"Well," the British boy still standing on the inside of the doorway said with unmasked annoyance, "have a nice night."
He made to close the door but Thomas launched an arm out - far too quickly - to halt it, "Can I wait in here till he gets back?"
"Why?"
"I locked myself out."
Newt's face was unreadable for a moment, then he closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh, muttering under his breath, "Why is this my problem now?"
Thomas would've been more annoyed, if he wasn't on the verge of passing out right there at the feet of one of his least favourite people on earth, and that didn't seem appealing, "Please, Newt."
Newt opened his eyes and looked at Thomas quickly, almost as though the mention of his own name was shocking to hear. He didn't say anything, but pushed the door open wider and moved aside to let Thomas in. Thomas lumbered through the doorway and set off towards Minho's room without a word of thanks.
"I won't be bloody babysitting though, alright!" He heard Newt say as the door closed and the lock clicked in, then, "And don't bother me while I'm studying!"
His shouts receded quickly as Thomas made his way down the hall.
There was a glass of water on Minho's bedside table when Thomas woke up. He didn't remember going to the kitchen. Nonetheless, he reached over with what little strength he had and gulped it all down. There was an alarm clock on the table too. It blinked 02:42 in the darkness and Thomas realized Minho wouldn't be coming back tonight. He thought, in his slightly more sober state of mind, that he ought to find some sort of painkiller. He moved to the kitchen, being careful not to slam any doors along the way so as not to wake Newt. As much as they got underneath each other's skin whenever Minho forced a group situation upon the three of them, he had helped Thomas when he had no obligation to. He was surprised to find that the kitchen was not completely dark. A light through the doorway gave Thomas enough vision to locate the medicine cabinet, grab an aspirin and pour another glass of water. He then walked through the lit doorway to find the source and, most surprisingly, it was the table lamp on Newt's desk. Newt sat statue-like at it, bent over a thin book; computer on and opened to a Wikipedia page Thomas couldn't quite read from his distance. He walked silently over to the couch and sat down. Newt noticed, and looked from the book to Thomas for half a second, then returned to his work. Thomas took the aspirin and laid back on the couch, not keen on retreating back into the solitude of Minho's room just yet for some reason he couldn't fathom.
Every few minutes Newt clicked the keyboard or turned a page. He had a cup of something that wasn't steaming anymore on his desk, which he drank from so infrequently Thomas couldn't imagine it was still warm. It was after an estimated half an hour of silence that Thomas stopped looking at all the things Newt was doing and rather started looking at Newt. How he swivelled his chair slightly to the right, unknowingly moving his face into a better light. Now Thomas could see the thin-rimmed circular spectacles perched on Newt's nose and drooping eyes behind them; even the faint bags forming just underneath. The way he shifted loose pages from one hand to the other like that would suddenly make sense of them. Thomas tried not to pay any mind to the way his breathing just so slightly hastened when the other boy dragged a hand through his dirty blonde hair, tugging on the shaggy ends as though he was absentmindedly considering whether or not it had grown too long. Thomas tried especially hard not to pay any heed to the mop in question that clung in a messy frame to Newt's face: the dishevelled, untamed, 3am hair, and was he hungover or would he almost say Newt looked-
"Tommy?"
Thomas jumped; Newt noticed, "What are you staring at?"
Thomas blinked and averted his eyes. He knew Newt was looking right at him now. What the hell was he supposed to say?
"I told you not to call me that." He was changing the subject. Not his smoothest move. The snark sounded more like anger, when really he was just flustered, and he hoped more than anything that Newt wouldn't notice. Neither said a word for what felt to Thomas like an awkwardly stretched out amount of time. Then Thomas heard the squeak of Newt's chair as he turned back around, no argument made.