Chapter Text
Waves of thick, humid air wash over Thomas as he pushes the door to the Biology and Neuroscience building open and steps into the hazy California summer. As he takes a deep breath, hoping to filter out some amount of oxygen, he already finds himself longing for the cool caress of the building’s A/C, even if it means hours cooped up in a lab with Dr. Ava Paige.
This winter, he had applied to her summer research project, knowing her reputation as a groundbreaking scientist and competent professor would help boost his grad school application. As the only engineering student on a team of premeds, it turns out all he needs to do is design enclosures, mazes, and challenges for a group of lab rats (Dr. Paige said his role was to facilitate testing, while the premed students were working with her on some kind of pharmaceutical meant to reduce symptoms of dementia) but he finds the amount of time he spends just standing around while the other students chatter amongst themselves about the rats’ behavior completely unnecessary. Alas, he tolerates it. He has to make a good impression to hopefully secure a letter of recommendation for the future.
Thomas shifts his backpack a bit and throws a leg over the seat of his bike. Internally wincing at the stiffness of his joints and doing a few awkward pedals to try and stretch his legs a bit, he begins his ride home. At least the air moving around him keeps him a little cooler than normal. Thomas only observes a few people out and about as he zips across campus. Which is fair on a day like today. Most people prefer A/C to drowning in their own sweat.
As he pulls up to the house he rents with Minho, Thomas notices the lack of a car that was there this morning.
“Is Teresa gone already?” Thomas shouts into the house, shutting the front door behind him and stepping out of his shoes. It takes a bit to adjust to the dimness of the house and he nearly falls flat on his face stumbling over a poorly placed cardboard box.
“Yeah, she left after lunch!” Comes Minho’s disembodied voice from the direction of the hallway, presumably the bathroom. “Also she left some of her stuff, since it couldn’t all fit into her car.”
“I noticed,” Thomas grumbles, white spots finally faded from his vision and eyeing the four heavy boxes that had been shoved as close to the front door as possible. He carefully scoots around them and heads towards Minho’s voice and the stairs to his room on the second floor. “When’s she gonna come get the rest of it?”
Minho barks a laugh. “Hell if I know man, she’s getting ready for doctor school. Whenever she has time, I guess.”
Thomas leans against the doorframe of the bathroom, watching as Minho leans over the sink and runs his fingers through his hair. “Headed to volleyball? You don’t really need the gel, I know how much you sweat.”
Minho squints at him through the mirror. “Shut up man, your hair is like an inch and a half away from being a buzzcut.”
“And yet somehow, I never have to do anything to make it look this good,” Thomas teases, with a flourish directed at Minho’s reflection.
Minho suddenly turns and lunges at him with gooey gel-covered fingers. Thomas lets out a shriek and dodges, falling off his rest on the doorframe and stumbling further into the hallway while Minho cackles. “One of these days, I’ll get my hands on your hair and you’ll wake up looking like Guy Fieri.”
Thomas throws his hands to his chest in mock horror. “You wouldn’t! I would make a terrible blonde!”
Minho leans around the doorframe to look at Thomas and give him an impossibly wide closed-mouth grin that is more terrifying than funny. “You just sleep with one eye open, yeah?”
Thomas chuckles (with slight nervousness) and turns to go up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time. He has to get changed and freshen up for his shift at Jorge’s, the old-school seaside diner where he works part-time. He quickly discards his sweaty t-shirt and pulls a new one over his head, reveling in the fresh scent of laundry detergent.
Dress requirements at the diner are pretty lax, so Thomas usually opts for t-shirts or muscle tanks. Teresa used to make fun of him the first summer they knew each other when he started wearing them to his job, saying he didn’t need to go that far just for extra tips. If he’s being honest, the diner just doesn’t have good air flow and the only source of cold is from the ice cream freezer by the counter. But being mindful of the smaller space and its lack of air conditioning (okay and maybe his potential customers as well), he reapplies his deodorant and ducks out of his room.
Teresa’s now empty room lies across from his, while Minho sleeps in the bedroom on the ground floor. Originally, they wanted to give Teresa that room, until they realized Minho made a lot of noise doing his morning calisthenics and banished him to a floor that didn’t shudder every time he did mountain climbers.
As Thomas thumps down the stairs, he calls out to Minho, who is carrying his volleyball bag to the main room. “Any luck on the new roommate front? I’m not looking forward to paying double rent if we can’t find someone soon.”
“You mean if I can’t find someone soon,” Minho grins from where he’s seated, tying his shoelaces. “The listing is tied to my account, you shank.”
Thomas pats Minho’s shoulder as he passes him to grab his own shoes once more. “Yeah, yeah, thanks for your hard work. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’m still narrowing down our options. I’ve spoken to a couple people in person already and I might have them visit sometime so we can all talk.”
Thomas and Minho always tease each other and goof around, but Thomas knows his friend is incredibly responsible and never fails to be impressed by it. “Wow, that’s actually a lot of progress. Forget what I said about paying double rent, then.”
They both stand up and walk out the front door, Thomas locking it behind them. “Have a good shift!” Minho shouts as they split ways, Thomas on his bike.
Thomas waves his arm without turning around and basks in the cool breeze as much as he can before he’s subjected to attic-like levels of mugginess at Jorge’s.
When Thomas opens the front door of Jorge’s, he sees Brenda already furiously wiping down the counter. There are two customers seated at one table near the windows, enjoying the view of the water. Thomas makes his way behind the counter to the saloon-style doors that lead to the kitchen and the employee room.
“Hey Bren, what’s up?” Thomas nudges her slightly with his upper arm.
Brenda sighs and straightens up, the hand clutching her rag moving to her hip while the other smooths over her short hair. “Ah, not a whole lot, just been cleaning up since Jeff clocked out. Little kids keep spilling their milkshakes and they’re a bitch to scrub after they’ve spent half an hour melting into the table.” She then turns to Thomas with a smug look on her face. “Although, now that you’re here you can work the counter while I help Fry in the kitchen.”
Brenda drapes her dirty rag over Thomas’ shoulder as she moves past him and through the saloon doors.
Thomas huffs out an amused snort and follows her to drop his stuff in the employee room. Being the daughter of the owner, she spends a lot of time in this diner and has earned the right to delegate tasks to the other workers.
Just as he’s about to reenter the dining area, Brenda pops out from the kitchen and says, “Oh, by the way, the soda machine’s acting up. Some drinks work and others don’t, so just be aware of that.” She ducks back in before Thomas can even nod.
Alright, so some of the drinks won’t come out of the fountain. That’s fine, people can just grab a different drink and he’ll make sure to open up the machine and check it out as his shift ends. Thomas takes his place behind the register and watches the ocean waves peeking out from behind the boardwalk across the street, trying to distract himself from the subtle amount of sweat starting to build up beneath his collar.
Thomas gets done serving a mother and her toddler a side of fries and a cold bowl of coffee-flavored ice cream, when a noisy group of what must be middle school-aged boys approaches the counter. With the amount of people packed into the diner now, the radiating body heat only adds to the chaos. All the windows are open, Thomas’ already short sleeves have been rolled up past his shoulders, and he’s desperately trying to hear this boy’s order over the sound of seagulls and chatter.
“I want, uh…..the…” The boy in an orange Adidas t-shirt and bright blue basketball shorts taps his finger at the side of his chin as he gazes at the menu on the wall behind Thomas’ head. His friends are chortling and messing around with each other. The boy in front seems to come to a decision. “Could I get a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a hot dog and a strawberry waffle cone?”
Damn, Thomas almost forgot that kids this age eat that much. “Yeah, of course.” He types in the boy’s order and waits for him to pay (in cash) and gets ready to go through the same process with the four other boys after him.
“What would you like to or—” SPLEFFSHSHHH. There’s a violent flushing noise followed by arhythmic sputtering that causes the entire diner to go still for a second.
Thomas’ head whips around in the direction of the sad fizzing noises and his eyes lock onto the scene, breath coming short. Slightly hunched over, arms awkwardly floating in front of him to keep the front of his shirt from sticking to his body, is the most dashing, soda-soaked man Thomas has ever seen. His brows are furrowed as one of his eyes squints a bit more than the other and SHIT, THE GODDAMN SODA MACHINE.
Thomas feels a headache start stirring in the back of his head as he steps away from the counter, middle school boys forgotten, and approaches the (handsome) customer. The man’s blond hair is dripping in the front where he got sprayed with soda. His eyes are sharp and narrowed and his mouth is set in a puzzled frown. He wears a stylish, loose white long sleeve — now stained with orange splotches — and tan cotton wide-legged pants that crop at his ankles. Hanging from his neck is a long silver pendant that swings back and forth as the man tries to shake his shirt out. Thomas tries not to gape at how well put-together someone can look after being blasted by orange Fanta.
“Excuse me, sir, I’m so sorry,” Thomas gushes, grabbing a handful of napkins and feeling more and more guilty as he sees those sharp eyes and disgruntled frown look up to face him. He offers (shoves) the napkins forward and asks, “Are you alright? I didn’t think the machine would do that, I’m so sorry.”
The man straightens up slightly — he’s a few inches taller than Thomas, the unhelpful part of Thomas’ brain notes — and looks slightly less grumpy as he takes the napkins and starts to dry his face and hands. “No need to apologize twice, mate. I’ll be fine. Should probably put a sign on this thing, though.”
Thomas stumbles into a sentence after registering the man’s soothing timbre and British accent. “Uh YEAH, yeah, definitely my bad for not doing that sooner. My, um, coworker told me it was acting up, but I didn’t think it was bad enough that it would attack a customer.”
Beautiful blond man makes a noise that could either be a laugh or a scoff and Thomas looks back up at him. He’s focusing downward and holding the front of his shirt with one hand, while the other clutches the bundle of paper napkins and dabs at it. Thomas swallows and blurts out, “Do you need a different shirt? We keep a lost and found in the back and some of those sweatshirts have been here for months.”
The other man looks at him with slight lift to the corner of his mouth and a questioning stare. Thomas backtracks hard at the realization. “I mean they’re not old and nasty. They’re clean! We wash them if they’ve been here for long enough so we can donate them, but they haven’t gone yet so…” And he sort of just gestures behind him to the saloon doors.
The blond man stares for a second longer with a look that Thomas doesn’t quite see as scrutiny but also doesn’t quite see as agreement, but then averts his gaze to the doors and nods. “Alright, might as well. I suppose it’s the least you can do for this horrible display of customer service.”
There is a hint of teasing in his voice and Thomas whips around to avoid revealing the hue his face turns from a mix of mortification and fluster. “Okay, then just follow me!” He walks a little too swiftly back to the counter and thank whatever’s out there for Brenda, because, as if somehow sensing she was needed, there she is taking customers’ orders while Thomas flails around in front of a gorgeous man. She gives him a small affirmative nod as he passes her and holds the doors open behind him for Blondie to follow.
When they’re both through, Thomas turns again immediately to the employee room and leads the other to the tub of various hoodies, knock-off Hawaiian shirts, sunglasses, and even a pair of swim trunks(?). Thomas is quick to shove those to the bottom of the bin, out of view.
“Here you go, have a look,” Thomas offers.
Blondie squats down and pulls apart the articles of clothing, holding them up to inspect them. He chooses a boxy navy blue t-shirt and stands back up, suddenly way too close to Thomas. Thomas feels his stomach flip and his face heat up, his nose practically touching the guy’s neck. Blondie looks down slightly, starts a bit, seeming to notice the distance and steps back scrunching his nose a little and pressing his lips together.
“Well, uh, thanks mate,” he says, looking around the small staff room.
Thomas stands there like an idiot for just a second, before realizing he must be looking for a bathroom or a place to change. “Bathroom is just across the hall! If you want to change in there.” He bravely takes a gentle hold of the other man’s arm and guides him to the short hallway, pointing to the sign with what he hopes is a friendly smile.
“Thanks.” Blondie nods and starts towards the bathroom, but Thomas can’t help it.
He calls out one last time, “Can I get you anything? On the house?”
Blondie turns around and meets his gaze. “I think that would be too much. You really don’t have to.”
Thomas grins and decides to push a little more. “Aww, but what about your soda? You need something to beat the heat, right? I’ll make you a Shirley Temple, okay?”
Blondie gets a half-amused, half-pensive look on his sharp features, before shaking his head and conceding. “Alright, if you insist. Thanks again.”
Thomas feels triumph swell in his chest as his stomach continues to flip about happily. He rushes to the kitchen as soon as Blondie’s in the bathroom to make him his drink.
Thomas meets him out in front of the counter, saving himself from spilling the drink as he sees how well navy blue compliments his dark eyes and sandy locks. He puts on his most genuine customer service persona as he hands over a straw and says, “Thank you for coming and once again, I apologize about the machine. I hope you have a great rest of your day.”
Blondie gives him a small smile and nods, eyes focused more on the drink than on Thomas. “Thanks, you as well. Appreciate the shirt, too. Cheers.” The man makes swift and even strides to the door, leaving Thomas at a loss for words in more ways than one, before throwing a glance over his shoulder so brief Thomas would’ve missed it if he blinked. Blondie then exits the diner and makes his way down the boardwalk and out of sight.
Thomas jerks forward as he feels a sudden whack to the back of his head. He peers behind him to find Brenda with one of their menus. “Remember that you’ve been on the clock this whole time, Thomas,” she chirps with a sly look on her face.
Thomas groans and returns to the register to finish out his shift. His neck feels way too warm, even for Jorge’s.
When he makes it back home, Minho is already on the couch watching one of those TV dramas he likes. Thomas drops his bag, kicks his shoes off and falls onto the couch, sprawling over the armrests and over Minho.
“Dude, get off of me, you’re so gross right now,” Minho protests, shifting his legs, trying to kick Thomas’ smelly feet onto the floor.
Thomas, face pressed into the other seat cushion just lets out a low giggle and rolls like a log onto the floor with a thump. Minho eyes him from above strangely.
“Are you okay, man? You drink something weird at work?”
Thomas shakes his head, letting out another giggle, still thinking about the handsome soda man and their almost-not-awkward conversation. What a stunning human being. Thomas is sure he made a fool of himself and also probably killed the whole vibe of that guy’s day, having been indirectly at fault for the soda accident, but right now he couldn’t care less. Customers usually aren’t this memorable and Thomas doubts he’ll see him regularly, if at all ever again. The British accent suggests Blondie might be here on vacation. Thomas tries to recall each word said to him in that low voice, blushing slightly in concentration.
“Hello? Thomas, snap out of it,” Minho jostles him a bit with his foot, eyes once again trained on the television screen. “What happened at work?”
Thomas sits up a bit now. Minho would probably find the story amusing enough. “Our soda machine exploded in a customer’s face.”
Minho lets out a bit of a choked huff, surprised out of the trance his TV show has put him in. “Dude, what? That’s not funny,” Minho says, while smiling and biting his cheek.
Thomas continues, with a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, it was more panic-inducing at first, the shop was so busy. But the guy it got on was so understanding and nice about it. Like honestly some kind of tall, blond beach angel. I’m sort of glad it was him that got it rather than someone else.”
“That’s a little weird to wish upon a customer,” Minho responds. “But whatever, sounds like he left a strong impression on you, Tomboy. You get his name?” Thomas resists the urge to shove his feet back into Minho’s face.
“No? He was just a customer, man,” Thomas retorts, face heating. “It did make my day a whole lot more interesting, though.” He pauses before processing the entirety of what Minho said. “Oh shuck, I didn’t get his name.”
Minho throws his head back and lets out a roar of laughter. “I know you so well!”
“Oh my god, don’t start.” Thomas’ face heats up and he suddenly needs to get away from Minho’s gloating. He pushes himself off the ground, flipping Minho off discretely, before scrambling to the bathroom and locking the door behind him to avoid Minho’s muffled shouts of “Open the door you little shank!”
The next day, Thomas doesn’t work but is stuck in Dr. Paige’s lab from 10 until 5. He frowns, squinting at a computer screen with way too many applications open, compiling some raw data into charts for the premeds to analyze. Sometimes he wonders if he’s really the engineer of the team or just the lab tech.
One of the other students, Rachel, comes over to Thomas, wearing a slightly strained expression. Out of the three other students working with Dr. Paige, she is by far the most human. As a STEM student himself, Thomas didn’t believe the scary robot STEM student stereotype until he met those two. Rachel, although efficient and smart, at least seems to feel as exasperated as he does around Dr. Paige.
“Having fun with data analysis?” she asks, slumping over in the chair next to Thomas.
“Oh yeah, loads,” Thomas states with false enthusiasm as he corrects the axes on a graph yet again. “How are the rats doing today?”
Rachel lets out a resigned breath as she leans back and stretches her arms. “I don’t know what to say. Some of them are frantically digging at the walls at the beginning of the obstacle course, some are normal and have found the food at the end. And of course, Janson is performing perfectly to our predicted model.”
Thomas scoffs. Dr. Paige gave the rat a unique name after it has consistently reacted exactly as predicted to each iteration of her drug and each stimuli in the enclosures Thomas designs. Why she picked Janson of all names is lost on him, but he thinks it boosts the rat’s ego. He can tell whenever he passes its cage that its nose twitches with an air of superiority.
He spins in his chair away from the computer for a moment. “Any idea when I’ll get to work on something substantial?”
Rachel peers at him with her head still tilted back and giggles softly. “I’ll let you know when Dr. Paige decides to expose her rats to another form of torture. It’s already enough having to remind myself that this research project is funded by an official board of scientists, with the amount of crazy shit she puts those creatures through.”
Thomas gives an unsteady chuckle in agreement. “At least it pays, right?”
Rachel nods and gathers herself, preparing to return to the others and get cleaned up. “At least there’s that. And the day off tomorrow. I hope you enjoy it.” She smiles a little more genuinely.
“Yeah, you too,” Thomas replies as Rachel makes her way into the next room. He finishes his graph and saves the files to the research group’s shared drive.
Minho is still out when Thomas comes home. He takes advantage of the silence to close his eyes and shrug off the stress of research. Working in that lab is draining and has Thomas yearning for physical activity, especially something that wouldn’t make him melt in the early July heat. It’s been a few weeks since he’s gone surfing and in between then and now, it’s just been little walks after work, wading around in the tide. He wishes he could go now, but instead resigns himself to a long shower followed by sinking into the couch while flicking through shows on Netflix.
About ten minutes into some kind of werewolf show, Thomas hears the front door swing open and loud, spirited voices spill into the room. Minho slips past Teresa’s boxes with a bag of takeout in each hand, while Ben, one of his teammates and friend of both of them, is a little less graceful as he follows Minho inside and slams his foot into the pile with a grimace and a curse.
Minho sets the takeout on the counter that divides the kitchen from the living room, then, facing Thomas with his hands planted on his hips, announces, “Game night.”
Ben, having recovered from stubbing his toe, gives a cheerful little whoop and moves to settle in the armchair next to Thomas. “I brought the pirates expansion for Catan,” he says, digging through his backpack and pulling it out. He plops the box onto the rug, shifting his bag to prop up against the side of the chair, and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he looks between Thomas and the TV with a casual grin. “Productive evening?”
Thomas grumbles amusedly as he sits up. “Am I not allowed to slob around in my own house?”
Minho, who is distributing the takeout onto dishes for them — he and Ben brought home Thai food, marked by the distinct scent of Swimming Rama — interjects, “Thomas spent six days in a row in a windowless room with Dr. Paige and tomorrow’s his day off. Let him have his corny werewolf show.”
Thomas chuckles with a bit of sheepishness mixed with horror at the reminder of his research and Ben laughs, “Damn, bro. No wonder you looked so vacant when we came in.”
They set up the board together on the coffee table as Minho arrives with their dinner balanced precariously on his arms. “Eat up, boys!” He slides the dishes onto the table next to the game and Ben immediately grabs for his plate of rice and Pad Krapaw. Minho and Thomas both snicker as the large man begins to shovel it into his mouth while contemplating the board setup.
They roll the dice and Minho ends up getting to pick locations for his settlements first, followed by Thomas, and then Ben. The game continues in a friendly and slightly chaotic manner. Ben pulls out a few beers from his bag, because of course he does, and Minho spends all his resources on development cards. At one point, when Thomas is about to split the mainland in half with his longest road, Ben and Minho get scarily quiet, attempting to plot against him with twitches of their eyebrows and huffs of air.
When they’re slightly tipsy and devolving into frantic and risky decision-making to try and win the last few victory points, Ben accidentally spills the remainder of his beer can onto the board, which suddenly forces the memory of the soda machine accident back into Thomas’ mind.
They call Minho the victor, with his absurd amount of soldiers, libraries, and whatever other points he gained from his development cards. As Minho and Ben soak up the mess with paper towels, Thomas spaces out on the table, recounting the incident, specifically the blond man with his damp hair and beads of soda rolling off his jaw. His stomach starts to feel like mush and he must have a really dumb look on his face because Ben’s interrupting his gaze with a waving hand.
“The hell’s up with Thomas?” he asks Minho playfully.
Minho notices as Thomas’ eyes widen slightly, coming back to reality, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. He’s probably just processing his loss.”
Thomas narrows his eyes and gives Minho a little shove with his foot as the other man turns to head to the kitchen with a wad of wet paper clutched between his hands, causing his knees to buckle sideways. “No way, you’re more of a sore loser than I am. I was just thinking about stuff that’s happened the past couple days.”
Ben is in a fit of giggles at Minho’s awkward recover, but after righting himself, Minho smirks and seems to read Thomas’ mind. “Soda fountain man?”
Thomas flusters and retorts a bit too indignantly, “NO! Well yeah, but that was just one thing. I’m thinking about other things too!”
Ben’s giggles fade and he raises a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Soda fountain man? Someone at work? What, did he flirt with you or something, Thomas? You’re all pink.”
Thomas covers his eyes with his hands and drags them down his face. Goddamn his telepathic friends. “Stop, it’s probably just the beer—”
“He is so crushing on this guy, Ben,” Minho cuts Thomas off. “You should’ve seen him when he got home yesterday. He was giggling and kicking his feet, no joke.” He shoots Thomas another sly smirk and cheekily dodges another shove to his knees with a little cackle.
Ben watches with an amused expression before asking, “You think you’re gonna see him again? You should ask him out. I mean it’s usually just girls flirting with you at work, right?”
Thomas sends Ben a single warning look before feigning a lunge at him that has Ben jumping backwards on the tips of his toes. “Yeah, but girls are easier to ask out. Besides, he wasn’t even flirting so what does this have to do wi—”
Minho cuts him off again with an “AHA!” He points at Thomas from where he’s standing next to the trash can. “So you considered asking him out.”
“Noooo,” Thomas groans, his head fuzzy and softly pulsing. “He’s only here for the summer and probably won’t come back to Jorge’s after the soda situation anyway. I was so embarrassed.”
“How do you know he’s only here for the summer?” Ben looks at him questioningly.
Thomas flops his head to the side to face him. “He had an accent. Stylish beach-y clothing and all. Definitely a family vacation.” The only people who hang around that touristy boardwalk are college kids and, well, tourists.
Minho shrugs and Ben decides to lay off the questioning. “Oh well. If that’s it, I am getting kinda bored listening to your excuses. Should we watch something?”
Thomas takes the hit, just grateful to move on. The three of them settle on the couch together and decide on a crappy stoner comedy.
Just as the opening sequence begins, Minho claps his hands, startling Thomas who is squished between him and the armrest. “Oh! One of our prospective roommates is dropping by tomorrow, Thomas. Just thought I’d let you know, since you’ve been worrying about it so much,” he jests.
“I thought we were done with this,” Thomas mumbles, once again revisiting the image of fair bronze skin against a soft hue of navy blue.
Minho just snickers quietly and refocuses on the movie.
Thomas is lifted out of his hazy slumber by the creaking of the front door and muttering cutting through his ears. Damn. He feels like an eight year old who just took a four-hour nap on some random couch at a family reunion. He blinks his eyes rapidly and feels his joints pop and crack as he slowly realizes he is, in fact, waking up on a couch. He shoots up to see Minho at the door speaking to someone who is on the porch. Thomas’ heart begins to accelerate in mortified panic.
Before he can remember his filter, he shouts, “Minho you ass! You let me sleep here all night?”
He sees Minho’s shoulders jump a little and his roommate turns with a disapproving look that is quite unnerving. “Thomas, we have company, calm down. I was going to wake you up but he’s already here.”
“Who..?” Thomas trails off as he peers into the blinding, door-shaped daylight that is no longer blocked by Minho’s muscled frame. Then he goes still. No shucking way.
Blondie smirks from behind a hand at Thomas’ pathetic, sleep-addled self, obviously amused. Thomas can feel heat rushing to his head. He knows his hair is sticking up in the back and his lounge clothes are all rumpled. He scratches at the side of his thigh absent-mindedly, still gazing at Blondie, before thinking of the most redundant thing to say. “You’re here?”
Minho shifts to lean on one leg, rubbing a hand at his temple. “Yeah, this is the new roommate — or should be soon. Thomas, I told you he was coming last night. Remember I’ve been talking to potential candidates?”
Blondie gives a little greeting salute, eyeing Thomas’ state of messiness, making Thomas squirm. “Can’t say I was expecting to see you again. You live here?”
“Yeah,” Thomas says, eloquently.
Minho rolls his eyes, turning back to Blondie. “That’s my roommate, Thomas. I swear he’s normally more put together.” Then he stops and turns back to Thomas with his eyebrows pinched. “Wait, ‘see you again’? You guys have met before?”
Thomas manages to make an affirmative noise amidst his reeling thoughts. Beautiful orange Fanta man was going to live with them?? He didn’t even think he was going to cross paths with him again, much less share a house.
Minho seems to gain some kind of revelation, as his expression shifts to realization. “Hold up, you’re the one Thomas has been talking about!”
Blondie frowns a bit in what must be surprise. “I suppose we did meet under odd circumstances.”
Minho grins wickedly and steps a little closer to Blondie. “Oh yeah, I’ve heard. Tomboy here hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
Blondie’s face twists in an unidentifiable emotion, but before he can respond, Thomas half-shouts, “Alright, cool, great to meet you, be right back!” and scampers out of sight, bounding up the stairs to his room to get changed and looking presentable. He swears he hears Minho’s evil laughter from below, but he ignores it in favor of freaking out about that shuck-ass first (second?) impression.
After tugging on some tan cargo shorts, a belt, and taking too long picking out a top, just to end up choosing a loose brown t-shirt with a whale graphic on it, Thomas steps out of his room. He sees Minho and Blondie checking out the empty room across the landing. Attempting to redeem himself somewhat, he enters in what he hopes is an easygoing manner.
“What do you think so far?” he asks Blondie, who sits on the mattress of the full-size bed. Teresa had been generous enough to leave the mattress behind, saying it was too much of a hassle to lug it to a different house.
The man once again eyes Thomas’ appearance and says, “It’s nice. Very cozy, but plenty of room for another person’s things.” His eyes then meet Thomas’ and Thomas steels himself, tilting his chin forward and leaning a casual hand on the doorframe, doing his best not to look away from the sharp and dazzling deep brown stare. “I fear I’ve been a bit rude, though. My name’s Newt. It’s been nice to meet you, Thomas.”
Thomas has to push off the doorframe a little to shake Newt’s hand and ignore how good his name sounds in a British accent. “Yes, twice,” he says with a small smile and it earns him a huff of laughter from Newt. His hand is a little bigger than Thomas’ and envelops his palm as he shakes it, but the ends of his fingers are cool in contrast. Thomas has to bite his cheek to keep his head as they draw back from the handshake. Newt has…nice…hands. “Anyways, as you’ve probably noticed, my room is just across over there,” Thomas points over his shoulder with his thumb, “so if you need anything, I’m pretty close by. And don’t worry too much about noise, I don’t have loud hobbies.” At that, Thomas smirks sideways at Minho.
“Ah, cheap shot,” Minho objects. “You’re just jealous you can’t do handstand pushups.”
“I choose not to do handstand pushups,” Thomas replies, crossing his arms. “I prefer not to replace the drywall every time I fall over.”
Newt lets out a laugh at this, the sound pulling Thomas away from his teasing. Thomas blinks at the openness of Newt’s expression, the way his eyes curve with joy and the way the line of his jaw becomes impossibly more accentuated. “That does sound pretty disruptive,” Newt comments, still smiling. Thomas forcibly stops himself from staring with a mechanical blink.
Minho scoffs in mock offense. “You’ve known me longer and you’re taking his side? I can’t believe this.”
Thomas offers a pat to his shoulder with a look of pity. “Sorry Min, can’t help it that I’m just naturally more charming.”
“Oh shut it, Tom.” Minho shakes Thomas’ hand off his shoulder with a goofy, exaggerated wiggle. “I’m charming when it counts.”
“So Minho likes to exercise,” Newt states, leaning on back on his elbows. “What about you, Tommy? What do you like to do?”
Tommy? Thomas swallows, feeling heat climb up his neck yet again. “When I’m not at the lab or working, I like to read, I guess.”
Newt’s mouth twitches with interest and he sits up more fully from his stretched out position. “Reading? That’s interesting, I’m actually a literature major. What kind of books do you like?”
Thomas feels a wave of pride at the praise that is quickly washed away by embarrassment. “I, uh, usually have to do a lot of technical reading for classes, so the books I read for fun aren’t that, uh,” he pauses, nervously moving his gaze to the window, “intellectual.”
Newt clicks his tongue, dismissing Thomas’ timidness. “Reading doesn’t have to be intellectual, mate. Really, what do you read?”
Thomas looks back at Newt and finds a genuine curiosity in the gaze that’s trained on him. It reassures him a little, but he feels Minho’s repressed laughter at his reluctance. “I like sci-fi and fantasy books mostly and my guilty pleasure is probably those crappy dystopian YA series,” Thomas admits, scratching his neck.
Newt seems to brighten. “Huh, I would’ve pegged you as a memoir kind of guy. Maya Angelou and all that.”
Thomas has trouble finding a response to that choice of wording. “Uh, thanks? I don’t think I’ve read any of her stuff, though.”
Minho elbows him. “He’s saying you look performative.”
“What the hell, Min,” Thomas protests. “I’m a horrible actor and I can’t hide anything. How can I be performative?”
This makes Newt chuckle again. “Don’t say that. You could totally pull it off. Just clip a carabiner to your belt and you’d be perfect.”
Thomas look down at himself while Minho and Newt laugh together. “What does that even mean?”
Minho glances at him with a face of restrained hilarity, but can’t keep it in and sputters, keeling forward. Newt, bless his silver tongue, manages to change the subject, leaving Thomas no less confused. “Never mind that, Tommy. So you like sci-fi? Would you believe it if I told you I was obsessed with the Divergent series in high school?”
Thomas gives him an incredulous grin. Newt, the very picture of wit and intellect in his elegant beige button down shirt that is perfectly loose around his neck, exposing his pendant, the sleeves rolled up handsomely, being being obsessed with a series generally made fun of by anyone who read it seems like a reach. But Newt doesn’t take it back and it forces Thomas to reply, “Divergent? Really? The one where there are five kinds of personalities and the main character is ‘not like the other girls’?”
Newt nods with a grin and responds, “Yes, that one. I was intrigued by the fact that their whole existence in that city was actually just a big experiment on human genetics and they were unwilling participants. In the end everything they thought they knew about the world was wrong. I always imagined what it would be like to go through something like that.”
“That’s certainly a way to think about it.” Thomas doesn’t think he understands the series half as much as Newt does. It impresses him. “Sounds like you were made to be a literature major.”
“Yeah, well what can I say? It’s my calling.” Newt relaxes back onto the mattress, satisfied.
Minho pipes up by clearing his throat. Thomas almost forgot he was there. “I’ll leave you two to your riveting conversation. I’m going to go make lunch. You like tacos, Newt?”
Thomas flushes, feeling called out, as Newt nods gratefully. “Yeah, thanks Minho. You need any help?”
“Naw, don’t worry about it,” Minho says, already out the door and starting to descend to the ground floor. “Get to know each other more.” He flashes a thumbs up before jogging down the stairs and Thomas sends a glare at his back.
He shuffles in place as he observes Newt, who is now inspecting the shelving in the empty closet. His long fingers drum at the folding door and he licks his lips before suddenly looking toward Thomas. “You said you do research. What’s that like?”
The skipping in Thomas’ chest is suddenly flattened at the mention of that damned project. “It’s not horrible.” He’s giving Dr. Paige’s experiment too much credit and thinks Newt recognizes that, if the skeptical expression is anything to go by. “Well, okay fine, it’s dingy and dark and mostly boring unless I get to design enclosures for the rats—”
Newt’s face pinches more.
“Oh, um. We experiment on rats. Give them challenges to measure their responses to various drugs?”
Newt looks slightly worried and concerned.
“I’m sorry, that sounds so sketchy,” Thomas blubbers. “I mean, it is. It’s definitely sketchy, but Dr. Paige is in charge and I’m just an engineering student and I need the credentials.” He’s rambling. He sighs and scratches at his temple. “I don’t know why I’m justifying myself and Dr. Paige’s actions. Rachel and I are the only sane ones there.”
Newt looks thoughtful, the crease of his frown still etched between his brows. “That doesn’t sound like the most ethical thing. This was approved? The research project?”
Thomas shrugs helplessly. “As far as I know, yeah. Paige says the drugs are important to studying dementia.”
“How noble,” Newt deadpans and it catches Thomas off-guard as he sputters up a laugh.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Newt tucks his hands into the pockets of his brown jeans and leans against the wall. “I’m actually familiar with her. I’m pretty sure Ava Paige used to do research at my old university. And not to brag or anything, but it was a pretty well-regarded school. Anyways, something happened that caused her to move operations elsewhere. I could just be speculating, but it sounds suspicious to me.”
Thomas feels dumb for not consciously realizing Newt was a transfer student. It made sense, he looked about a year older than Thomas. “Your old university? In…England?”
Newt smiles and huffs. “No, Tommy, in California. I used to go to WCKD University north of here. I’ve lived in America since middle school.”
“Oh, of course.” Thomas feels even dumber. “WCKD University though? That’s insane. How smart are you really?”
“I was there on an athletic scholarship. Not quite as smart as you seem to think I am.” Newt shifts a little, looking uncomfortable and Thomas decides he shouldn’t pry, despite the urge to learn as much as he can about the other. He figured Newt was a little too built to have never done a sport. Not that he was checking him out or anything.
Just as Thomas is about to change topics by bringing up the time he nearly drowned in a current while learning to surf, Minho saves his ass from further blunder by calling the two of them down for tacos.
The comforting aroma of carne asada wafts down the hall and Newt and Thomas sit beside Minho at the counter, reaching over each other to gather ingredients into their taco shells. Thomas keeps accidentally brushing against Newt’s arm, the little electric shocks causing him to be hyperaware of his body. The skin of Newt’s forearm is smooth except for a few veins that stretch down to his wrist and disappear up his sleeve. Thomas convinces himself he’s just jittery from hunger.
Their late lunch proceeds amicably, the three of them making casual conversation. Every once in a while someone (usually Thomas) will say something stupid, causing the others to snicker. At one point, Minho accidentally snorts a chunk of pico de gallo out his nose and the grossness of the situation forces them to set down their meals as they wheeze with laughter. Thomas is filled with a feeling of camaraderie. He’s glad they get along so well.
Minho shares the same sentiment with Thomas after they’ve walked Newt to the door and said their goodbyes. “We need him to move in as soon as possible.”
“Definitely,” Thomas replies, still watching the front window.
“Although, maybe not,” Minho drawls. Thomas faces him to see Minho with amused eyes and a hand on his chin. “He might actually be in danger if you can’t control yourself. I saw how you were staring at him.”
Thomas’ previous sense of friendship is shattered by overwhelming humiliation. Heat rising on the back of his neck, he retorts, “Oh my god, it’s nothing. Since the soda thing, I’m just not used to seeing him when he isn’t wet and sticky.”
Minho’s eyes twinkle and his smirk gets bigger.
Thomas feels his soul begging for escape as his expression drops. “NO OH MY GOD, NOT LIKE THAT.”
Minho doesn’t say anything and turns around, slowly returning to the kitchen, presumably to clean up. Thomas is not reassured in the slightest.
“MINHOOO! NOT LIKE THAT, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEANT.”
Minho’s response is to start moving plates to the sink.
Thomas groans in frustration. “Ugh, fuck you, Min, let me do the dishes.” And he crosses the living room, bumping a still-smirking Minho out of the way and manically pouring dish soap over everything.
As Thomas begins to aggressively scrub the sour cream bowl, Minho finally speaks up. “I left a sticky note with his number on the counter. You know, since he’s our new roommate. Do what you want with that.”
All Thomas can do is shrivel in shame as he sets the bowl in the drying rack and hears the door close to Minho’s room a few seconds later.