Thomas's pov

*four day timeskip*

The night was still young when I suddenly awoke in my bed. Confused, disoriented, and still half asleep, I pulled my heavy duvet up closer to my chest, glancing at the time. I drowsily noted that I still had a good four hours to sleep, so I let my eyes flutter shut again, relaxing back into my pillow.

All of a sudden, catching me off guard as if it were raining in the desert, extreme nausea rushed through me. I gasped, my eyes flying open. I keeled over in bed, clenching at my stomach as if that would ease my pain. Swallowing around my suddenly constricted throat, I paused, waiting to see if the nausea would vanish.

The seconds ticked by, and I was just relaxing again when the second bout settled in my stomach, stronger than the first. Gasping again, I threw off my heavy blanket, slipping out of bed and across my hotel room in a few strong leaps. My throat was constricting and my mouth was dry, and I could sense my fate from the second I slammed open the bathroom door.

I fell to my knees at the toilet just in time, my pale fingers clutching the rim as I heaved out the contents of my dinner. Coughing, I wiped at my mouth when I finished, now wide awake. I swallowed, still feeling the lagging sense of vomit in the back of throat, ignoring it as I flushed the toilet.

My knees were shaking as I used the sink to help pull me to my feet. My body felt weak, and my eyes drooped wearily, still trying to comprehend the last few moments. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping that that would ease the sweat now forming small beads on my brow. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, surprised to see how pale I was in the harsh light of the bathroom, before turning on my heel. My hand slid the lights off as I edged back into the main room, still not feeling completely settled.

I had just stepped foot into the room again when the overwhelming urge to vomit clamped its claws around my neck again. I spun, nearly tripping as I threw my small body back onto the tiled floor, repeating the process I had experienced not five minutes ago. Blinking wearily, I pushed the hair on my forehead back away from my eyes. I was coated in a thin layer of sweat, and the cold air of the room on my heated skin made my shiver. I shuddered in distaste when the lingering taste of throw-up settled in my mouth, standing quickly to grab my toothbrush.

Big mistake. Groaning, I fell to my knees again, ignoring the pain that burned at my joints. For the third time in fifteen minutes, I was vomitting what little remained in my stomach, willing myself not to pass out as each minute left me weaker than the last. I slumped back against the wall when I had finished, gagging again.

I probably looked drunk as I looked around the bathroom, still disoriented from my rude awakening. I shivered despite feeling hot all over, and I already felt a dim headache pounding lightly at the back of my skull. I peeled off my T-Shirt slowly, throwing it to the side and hoping that the cold air would cool down my overheating skin. Still, I sat shivering and yet too hot, a feeling I had not experienced since I was a child sick with the flu.

Too tired to edge back in bed, I rested my head on the bathroom tub, mind reeling. I tried to come up with a logical explanation to my sudden and overwhelming sickness, but nothing struck me until I was kneeling in front of the porcelain bowl again, spitting out a meal that had been delectable just hours previously.

Then it hit me; I was pregnant.

My eyes widened and I believed the thought, before the part of my brain that actually functioned at two in the morning reminded me that as I was a male who had not had sex in over four months, the odds of morning sickness were not even plausible. Cringing, I realized that I had instead just come down with some type of sickness.

The nausea in my stomach became manageable, so I stumbled out of the bathroom in a haze. I dimly wondered where this sudden illness had come from.Thinking back over the course of the week, I decided that I had certainly been ignoring the warning signs, like the hot flashes, my running nose, and the cough that had seeded itself in my throat four days ago. Annoyed with my body's inability to maintain some good health, (seriously, do your job, immune system) I decided the only way to cope right now would be a good ole' cup of tea.

I carefully wandered to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room, picking up the opened box of tea bags I had left on the counter. Disappointment settled onto my ever increasing list of emotions when I looked inside to see it empty. Aggravated, I threw the box across the room.

Now feeling sick, annoyed, and entirely un-British for my lack of tea supply, I fell back into bed. The clock on my bedside table read 2:45, so I closed my eyes, hoping my stomach would survive the rest of the night.

Luck didn't seem to be on my side that night however, for I found myself making frequent trips between the bathroom and my bed over the next three hours. Sleep became a dimming wish, as each swoop of my stomach kept me grounded in the real world, driving off any slumber. I managed just a few minutes of rest each time I collapsed onto my bed, though it was uneasy and interrupted.By the time my clock read 5:35, I gave up any hopes of going into work today. I texted Wes, alerting him that I was dying (or at least felt like it), and he responded that it was fine, but I better tell my immune system to stop being crappy. I replied that I had tried doing that hours ago.

It was Friday, meaning that the weekend would offer me more time to heal. Not every actor had gained this respite, but my role in The Maze Runner left quite a few scenes where I was not needed. Right now, I certainly wasn't complaining.

By the time eleven o'clock had rolled around, my apartment looked like a typhoon had rolled through. Medicine boxes and used tissues began to pile up around the rubbish-bin, and I became king of the mess, seated on my knees before my porcelain throne (I'm literally so proud of that pun).

By noon I was literally over being sick. I had tossed and turned in bed for so many hours by now that the sheets had been tangled and were no longer neatly tucked in on each corner. I practically prayed to be healthy, so at least I could get up and fix the bed without having to take a subsequent trip to the bathroom. After every cough and gag and sneeze I suffered through, I finally decided that of the seven dwarves, Sneezy had it the worst. Being sick sucked.

At one o'clock I called my mum. I had been longing for her all day, especially with her warm tea in mind. She always knew how to make me feel better, whether it be by rubbing my back or fetching me blankets. I hadn't seen her in over four months, and with nothing to do but lounge around miserable all day, I couldn't help but really miss her. She didn't answer, and though I was disappointed at first, I realized after I had left a rather depressing message that she was probably still asleep in London.

By two o'clock I had convinced myself that I had observed and memorized every square inch of the wall across from my bed. I even named the small little speck in the top right corner (his name was Ferdinand). Boredom and sickness were driving me insane, I tell you.

Three o'clock had me curled up in a ball on my bathroom floor, feeling worse than I had all day. My stomach repeatedly clenched and my body throbbed all over. I was weak, tired, and in desperate need of some human company.

At four o'clock, all my prayers were answered.

Well, kind of.

I was still lying on the bathroom floor, shaking, sweating, and in only sweatpants when I heard someone begin pounding at my door. I could barely manage a weak, "come in" in my condition. I doubted the person even heard me, but they barged into my room anyway; the footsteps slowly explored the two rooms in which I had been living before they made their way to the bathroom, each stride louder than the last as the person drew closer.

I was curious to see who had come to explore my 'home', but my stomach had other ideas. Just before the bathroom door opened, I was sprawling myself onto the toilet again, cursing whatever deity had put me in this condition.The footsteps paused once the person realized what was happening, but I was much too focused on not puking out my intestines to really pay much attention.

When I had stopped, the person spoke up. "Dude, you looking terrible."

My head turned but my body stayed hunched over the bowl. Gasping for air, my eyes traveled up a pair of long khaki pants, a dark gray pullover and a pair of chapped pink lips before I finally met the gaze of my dearly beloved best friend (please note my sarcasm), Dylan O'Brien.

I tried to give a snarky reply, but my mouth was put to more important things, like turning to throw up again (I know what you were thinking there for a second, and you're going to hell).

I was coughing and feeling as empty as could be when I felt Dylan's hand ghosting across my bare back. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have frozen or yelled at him or something, but right now his warm palm drawing comforting circles on my spine took away some of my aching pain. So I let him continue his reassuring pats on my shoulders as I continued to basically dry-heave, and though I wasn't entirely opposed to the situation, I definitely appreciated his gesture.

When I had finished, Dylan pulled away. My stomach felt more settled now, so I climbed to my feet, using the sink for stability. I pushed past him into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and a tissue.

Finally I turned to face Dylan. "Why are you standing in my room?" I asked. I was surprised by how scratchy my voice sounded, and I erupted into a coughing fit just seconds after I choked out the question.

Dylan stood uncertainly in the center of the room. He fidgeted around, shifting between ruffling his neatly-shaven hair and watching me die. Like the true gentleman he is, he waited for me to stop hacking up a lung before he attempted to reply.

"I'm on Mom-duty," he finally said, a broad smile covering his cheeks. I squinted at him in dismay.

"Okay, uh...Mum?" I started, my voice raising to sound like a question. I sniffed, then repeated, "Why are you standing in my room?"

Dylan's obnoxiously white smile widened as he held up a brown paper bag. "Well," he started. He came closer and carefully placed the bag on the counter, before saying, "Kaya sent me."

"Why didn't Kaya come herself?" I asked. Old habits die hard, and I couldn't help when a bit of an asshole-attitude slipped into my voice.

If Dylan caught my snark, he ignored it. "She was staying on set for something. I'm not really sure for what, but she seemed rather persistent that I came to visit you."

I nodded, glancing at the bag. Sensing my curiosity, Dylan spoke again. "I brought gifts, too!"

I couldn't help the bewildered look that etched onto my face, and Dylan's bark of laughter scared me. I attempted to peek in the bag still resting on the counter, but Dylan clenched it shut. The dang boy was stubborn, so even when I gave him my best puppy-eyes look, he refused to recede.

Finally, I sighed. "What'd you get me?"

Dylan smiled triumphantly. "Well, actually, it's what Kaya got you--because I kind of stole her money in order to purchase it--but that's besides the point. She wanted me to buy you some beer..." Dylan trailed off as he pulled out a six-pack of Bud Light, but he continued, "--because apparently 'alcohol fixes every upset'--"

I interrupted him, "But Dylan I don't--"

"--But, because I remembered you don't drink--for some unknown reason I'll never understand--I took the liberty of buying me the beer, and you some British tea," Dylan finished over me.

I stopped talking immediately. Dylan held up a box of what just so happened to be my favorite brand of tea, a warm smile resting contentedly on his lips. He looked genuinely proud of himself, his smile easy and caring. It was a different grin from which I usually saw, being his usual mocking or overly-excited beam, and I couldn't help but smile back with how genuine he seemed.

Breaking the weird tension between us, I muttered, "First of all, that's a very stereotypical assumption that I like tea." Then I quickly reached forward, snatching the box out of his loose grip. Smiling wickedly, I continued, "But you are entirely correct!"

I spun around to put on a kettle of water, but my sick body wasn't prepared. As my vision suddenly became black, I wobbled to the side. I braced myself for impact with the floor, but it never came.

"Careful," I heard Dylan whisper. Slowly my vision cleared and my senses came back. Now completely aware, I felt Dylan's large hands on my still bare chest, preventing me from me falling.

He caught me. He fucking caught me.

As he made sure I was stabilized, I muttered a quiet thanks. Suddenly the room was much more tense, and suddenly I felt much more weak. I wobbled again, and Dylan's hands shot out to protect me.

"Go lie down. I'll make the tea," he said softly. I nodded, too tired to even argue.

Somehow I managed to limp my way to the bed without passing out. Behind me, Dylan bustled around in my small kitchenette, but I was too focused on not passing out to really care. My stomach had dropped again, and as I crawled under my blankets, I waited for the moment in which I would be making a break for the bathroom again.

I had formed a cocoon for myself when Dylan returned, a steaming mug in hand. He passed it down to me, and without hesitating I took a cautious sip. To my surprise, it was pretty good.

Dylan must have seen the surprise on my face so he said, "Did you expect me to make bad tea or something?"

Coughing, I nodded. He huffed in indignation, muttering, "Just because I'm from New Jersey doesn't mean I'm bad at everything."

I snorted, taking another sip. It was actually really good, surprisingly. I sneezed, and Dylan laughed. Like I said, what a gentleman.

Dylan glanced around my room. I felt self-conscious, as if he were judging the shape my sick body had left it in. Usually I was quite sanitary, but I hadn't exactly found the motivation to clean today, so my room looked pretty bad.

Without saying a word, Dylan set to cleaning up the place. I watched as he carefully picked up my pile of tissues, dropping the more sickly ones back onto the floor in disgust. It was almost comical, watching him sort through my dirty belongings. A week ago, I never would have pictured this scene in my head; in fact, I probably would have laughed at the idea of Dylan doing something so generous for me. Now, I'd only laugh at his expressions as he did it.

"You don't have to do this," I said once he had finished with his sorting. He glanced up, looking at me in my pile of pillows, before he set off to the opposite side of the room.

"Actually, I do. For two reasons. One, Kaya would kill me if I didn't, and two, like I said, I already accepted responsibility of Mom duty."

I shook my head. "What does that even mean?"

Dylan straightened again, shaking his head. "It means," he over-annunciated, "that I'm the sucker who has to take care of your sorry ass."

I laughed lightly. After being so miserable all day, it felt pretty good to laugh.

Dylan continued in afterthought, "You know though, this all could have been avoided if you had just listened to me in the first place."

Confused, I tilted my head. "What are you talking about?" I asked.

Dylan rolled his eyes as he made his way to the brown bag again. "On the night we spent in our trailer, I warned you that you would get sick."

Memories came flooding back, and I found myself smiling. "Oh, yeah."

"You're a dimwit," Dylan rolled his eyes again. Then his eyes landed on the box of tea I had thrown earlier, and he frowned. He stared at it for a solid ten seconds, before he looked me dead in the eye and said, "Did you really get so angry that you threw a box of tea?"

Surprised that he guessed so spot-on, I couldn't reply. Dylan rolled his eyes, saying, "You're so fucking British sometimes."

I should have been insulted, but his light voice only made me laugh again. I watched Dylan turn back to the brown bag.

"I got you medicine too," he said after a brief pause, changing the subject. He reached into the bag he had brought, but right at the moment, my phone started to ring. I looked down to see that it was my mother, and deciding that it was best not to ignore it, I slid my finger across the answer call button.

"Hello?" I said. Immediately my mum began to babble away, but I was preoccupied by watching Dylan in the kitchen (Who had thought it necessary to start singing Hello by Adele). "Yeah?" I answered when she paused. I had no idea what I was agreeing to, but she seemed satisfied by the response, chatting away again.

Dylan moved to the side, and my jaw dropped. Laid out on the counter in full view was nearly twenty boxes of medicine. It was enough for a week, a few months--heck, a few years.

"Yes, Mum, I'm--" I just started to reply to my mother's endless questions when my stomach swooped again. Dropping my phone, I rushed off into the bathroom. The process was all too familiar for me, and instead of getting up again after I had finished, I leaned back against the bathroom wall.

Through the thin walls, I could just barely make out the mumble of conversation back in the main room. Curious, I pulled myself out of the bathroom, cautiously listening to Dylan who was--shit, that was my phone in his hand.

It was like watching my worst nightmare come to life. Dylan chattered animatedly with my mother, and I froze as I listened to Dylan's half of the conversation. "Yes, he's fine...no, don't worry about it!! Really, I'm okay with it...No, we're just--friends, yes...I'll pass on the message...you too, Mrs. Sangster...yes, it was nice talking to you too...bye."

As he hung up the phone and carelessly tossed it back on my bed, I unfroze. The severity of the situation came crashing down on me, and before I could think, I was launching myself at Dylan, lightly slapping his chest in faux-fury.

"Ah--what are you--Thomas!" Dylan shouted, raising his hands to protect himself. He shrank away from me, cowering as I repeatedly wapped him with my hands.

"You can't talk to my mother! That's an invasion of privacy! That's--that's illegal in America! I could arrest you!" I stuttered between slaps. Dylan kept yelping as he stepped away, until finally he grabbed my hands and pinned them to my chest.

"Firstly," he panted once I stopped struggling. "You can't arrest the guy that's taking care of you. That's just wrong."

I forced myself to keep my face straight, amusement bubbling up inside me. "Secondly," he continued, "your mom is so nice."

"I know, why do you think I'm so nice?" I joked. My hands were still pinned to my chest.

"You? Thomas, you've been on Santa's naughty list since you were born," Dylan laughed.

My breath caught when I realized how close Dylan was to my face. Bout a foot away, he was smiling, clearly realizing I was (mostly) joking earlier. His dimples seemed much bigger up close, and his eyes seemed like a slightly lighter shade of brown.

Then my stomach swooped again. My eyes widening, I pulled my hand away to clutch at my stomach. This time my heart was fluttering quickly too, and I almost raced for the bathroom before I realized that this dip in my stomach had felt different than the other ones I had felt throughout the day.

Dylan stepped back when he saw my reaction. "Are you going to throw-up again?" he asked. He raised his arms as if he were going to usher me into the bathroom, but let them drop as he thought better of it.

"No, I...," I trailed off. I definitely didn't feel like throwing-up, but my stomach had certainly just flipped.

"Are you okay?" Dylan asked. His eyebrows squinted in and his smile had faded.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I'm just gonna--I'm going to lay down for a bit, okay?"
Dylan nodded slowly, watching as I crawled under my sheets. As I settled back into bed, dazed and confused, he looked away to check his watch. He obviously didn't notice anything was wrong with me. Or not wrong with me. I don't know, my mind is confused too.

"I should get going," he said with a sigh. "It's almost seven, and I told Kaya I'd run some lines later."

I nodded, still lost in my thoughts. Dylan looked down on me, his eyes scanning the unkempt bed. Shaking his head, he lifted each corner of the mattress up in turn, quietly tucking the sheet back into its rightful place. Though would have been monstrously thankful earlier, I hardly even noticed now. I rolled around as he set to work, not really paying attention anymore.

I was so deep in my thoughts that I missed when Dylan froze on the final corner of the bed. I didn't notice as he took longer to tuck in that corner, or how he slowly straightened up when he had finished. I did, however, notice when he spoke.

"Thomas, what's this?"

I looked up, my mind whirling in confusion. But once I saw what was in his hands, my heart stopped, my thoughts stopped, time stopped.

Dylan was holding the journal Reggie Mills had given me.

//

Book recommendation: Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. I doubt you can find it on wattpad, but it's phenomenal.

Sorry this was a border-line filler oops

What do you call a lazy kangaroo??
A pouch potato!!

Okay I'm tired bye love ya

//sam\\