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The alarm ricocheted across Minho’s sleeping mind, startling him awake. With a groan, he rolled over, dragging the blankets with him, shutting the alarm off, then flopped back over on his back, blankets bunching up underneath his back.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, arms flopping beside him as he stared at the ceiling, trying to wake up for the day. Yesterday’s headache seemed to have lessened, though it still lingered. His throat was feeling funky, too. Not quite sore, not quite scratchy, but definitely not well.
He would just throw some extra electrolytes in his water and maybe steal some of Changbin’s vitamin c tablets. Hopefully that would scare off whatever was thinking about trying to take him down.
Throwing the covers back, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, shuffling over to his closet, not ready to face the day.
His headache stayed constant throughout the day, his throat complaining when it was used, voice hoarse by the end of the day. Minho was trying to not impulsively eat the vitamin c tablets he had snuck like candy in a futile attempt to ward off whatever bug had taken hold of his body, but failing a little on that front. He might as well chug a gallon of orange juice at this point, not that it would do much.
When he dragged his feet through the door of the apartment, he just wanted to drop in his bed and sleep the rest of the evening. Dinner? Not needed. Hydration? Nope. Sleep was what his body craved. But an essay for his literature class was due tonight and he had a couple sections of it he needed to finish before he could rest.
“You okay there, Min?”
Minho blinked, eyes focusing on Chan poking his head around from the kitchen, looking at Minho in confusion. He was still standing in the entryway, shoes on, dance bag and backpack slung over his shoulders.
“Yeah, why?” He tried to sound as normal as possible, resisting the urge to clear his throat with a sound that definitely would have sounded suspicious.
“You’ve been standing there completely zoned out for the last minute.”
Minho’s brain was lagging like a Dell laptop at this point. He was tired. “Oh.”
Chan’s amused look vanished into a frown. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem kind of out of it.”
“Just tired,” Minho mumbled, finally slipping his shoes off and stepping into the hallway, shuffling down to his bedroom.
“If you say so.” Chan didn’t sound completely convinced, but he let it go as he watched the dance major disappearing into his bedroom.
Minho dropped his bags in a heap beside his dresser and flopped facedown onto his bed, sighing with relief at the soft feel of his comforter. Any energy he had had left instantly left his body and he rolled over and curled up, dragging the comforter with him so that it sort of covered him.
Just five minutes, then I’ll get up, Minho thought faintly, eyes fluttering shut.
He woke up disoriented, throat painfully sore, and the room completely dark from the last time he had seen it.
“Crap, crap, crap,” he croaked, wincing as his throat protested, flinging the comforter off and slapping his nightstand for his phone, finding it where it sat on the edge. The white light that glared from it when he turned it on was nauseating and made his head hurt. Quickly he dimmed it and turned on the blue light blocker to make it more bearable.
10:56pm
One unread message
Chan: you were sleeping really well, so I didn’t…
He opened the message, squinting as the screens flipped, trying to focus on the text.
Chan: you were sleeping really well, so I didn’t want to wake you. Leftovers are in the fridge if you’re hungry. Changbin and Jeongin are out with the quadruplets for the night and I’m at the studio for a few hours. Call/text if you need something
Minho turned off the phone and stood up slowly, grimacing when his stomach flip-flopped a couple times. His throat hurt, even when he wasn’t swallowing uncomfortably. At least the headache was gone.
Had someone turned down the air conditioning?
He walked slowly out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, checking the thermostat as he passed by it. Nope, no one had turned down the air conditioning.
Fever, then?
Maybe he should see if they had a stray thermometer lying around.
The kitchen lights were annoyingly bright when Minho turned them on. Shuffling to the fridge, he opened it to see what leftovers Chan had been talking about.
Pasta and tomato sauce.
His stomach flipped at the idea.
That was a no.
But there was bread on the next shelf and toast sounded miles more appealing than pasta and tomato sauce.
Minho pulled out a couple slices of bread and popped them into the toaster, making a plan in his head of what to do next.
Thermometer, maybe some mild fever reducers, electrolytes in a bottle of ice cold water so he could stay hydrated, and then sleep.
He stared at the oven clock, feeling like he was forgetting something. The sense of doom was looming over his head like a dark cloud.
11:06pm.
The lightbulb went off.
The essay.
The essay that was due in fifty-three minutes.
The essay he still needed to finish.
That essay.
Crap.
The toaster popped, making him jump, and he turned just a little too fast, the world tilting for a second before right itself.
Minho grabbed the edge of the counter to steady himself, swallowing thickly and painfully as the panic of falling subsided, breathing ragged. He waited until his balance felt balanced before finishing making his toast, carefully walking back to his bedroom with that and the water bottle.
He wasn’t going to let a little cold stop him. This was nothing compared to that one time a couple summers ago…when he had landed himself in the hospital with a serious case of the flu.
That didn’t count.
Plopping down in his desk chair, he immediately turned down the brightness on his screen and as an afterthought, put on his glasses.
Exhaustion settled on his shoulders as he pulled up the essay, skimming it to see where he had been. He paused as his eyes scrambled three words into unreadability, his brain processing the formal writing at the speed of molasses.
What the heck was he doing.
“I could just email the professor,” Minho whispered, wincing when his throat twinged painfully.
That would have been the smart thing.
But a Sick Minho is not a completely Smart Minho.
He gritted his teeth, grabbed the comforter off of his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders to ward off the cold that seemed to be settling in his bones, and set to work.
~~~
When Chan got back home later that night (or early morning depending on who you asked), he was a little confused as to why the kitchen lights had been left on, switching them off as he passed by to go to this bedroom.
Must have left them on accidentally, he thought absently, passing by Minho’s room, noting the light was still on.
Deciding to take a quick shower before going to sleep, he grabbed clean pajamas and a towel, heading back the direction he had come and entering the bathroom, turning on the shower.
When he exited the bathroom, the light from Minho’s room was still on. Chan paused outside of the bedroom, considering if he should check on Minho or not. It was unusual for him to be up this late, even on the weekends. Something didn’t seem right.
Call him crazy, but his “dad” instincts (as the kids called them) were raising the alarm that not all was well and dandy this Friday night.
Worst case scenario, he has to deal with a grumpy Minho he had just woken up.
Best case scenario, in a fit of forgetfulness, Minho had just forgotten to turn out the lights before going to sleep.
He knocked on the door. When he didn’t hear an answer, Chan reached for the handle and began to open it. “Minho, I’m coming in.”
He wasn’t expecting to find Minho crumpled on the floor beside his desk, face flushed and sweaty, glasses askew, breathing ragged, arms and legs entangled in the comforter.
“Minho!”
~~~
“−nho can you hear me?”
Minho grunted. Why was he being woken up?
“−inho. Minho! Wake up right now or else I’m taking you to the hospital!”
Hospital?
Absolutely the heck not.
Minho cracked an eye open, immediately shutting it when the bedroom light assaulted it blindingly. The rest of his nervous system seemed to decide that it was time to let him know that the rest of his body, particularly his throat, ached and that he was hot and cold at the same time how is that possible. He groaned weakly, attempting to roll onto his side, someone helping him in the effort. “Owww,” he rasped.
“I’ll say. Did you hit your head?”
Ah, Chan. Just the person Minho wanted to see right now.
Not.
“How am I supposed to know? Everything hurts right now,” he grouched, trying to open eyes again and succeeding.
It was the little things.
Chan was kneeling in front of him, looking incredibly worried, his hands resting on Minho’s shoulder and side.
“What hurts?” He asked again. “Do we need to take you to the hospital?”
“Just shut up for two seconds, will you,” Minho snapped, regretting the volume of it instantly with his sore throat. “Give my body a minute to descend from whatever plane it decided to yeet itself to.”
The abrupt use of internet slang was enough breakthrough Chan’s worrying a little and he stifled a snort, sitting back on his heels as Minho reoriented himself. He began running a hand through Minho’s hair, hoping it would help calm him down and ground him, the younger one still blinking and frowning as he fully came to.
“How we doing?” Chan asked quietly after a couple minutes, hand still having not left Minho’s hair.
“I hurt,” was the muffled replied, Minho burying his face in the comforter he was still entangled in. “Throat’s sore, body aches. Everything’s hot or cold or both at the same time. Stomach’s not happy, but I’m not going to throw up. I think my head’s fine, though.”
“Are you okay if I go get the thermometer?”
Minho nodded, curling up further into himself, face still buried in the comforter.
“Okay, don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Chan got up off the floor and dug through the medicine cabinet as quickly he could, cleaning off the thermometer before running back to Minho’s room, somehow unsurprised at the fact that the young man had managed to sit up and prop himself against his bed.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” Chan scolded, shoving the thermometer into Minho’s mouth as soon as it was opened.
Minho glared at him, but kept his mouth shut as they waited for the device to beep.
“101 degrees. I don’t know if I should be impressed or worried,” Chan said, raising an eyebrow at Minho. “You’re surprisingly undelirious.”
“And you’re really hot in that tank top, but no one talks about that, sweetie,” Minho shot back, leaning his head back against the bed, closing his eyes.
Right. Sick Minho was not only Not Smart Minho, but also Flirty Minho, but without the actual interest.
Actually, Sick Minho was a lot of things. Stubborn being one of them.
“Am I going to have to deal with you all night or what, Mister Playboy?” Chan said amusedly.
Minho huffed and cracked an eye open, looking at Chan with a far too mischievous look for his sickly state. “I dunno. How’s your bedside manner?”
“Oh my gosh, that’s it, I’m knocking you out with the highest dosage of painkillers you can manage” Chan said, slapping Minho’s arm, though he was laughing.
Minho smiled and huffed, closing his eye again. “Please do. Maybe I can finally escape this crippling sense of responsibility that comes with looking this good.”
“Yeah, you’re delirious,” Chan said, rolling his eyes with a smile. “Alright, let’s get you into bed.”
“I still have an essay to finish, though.”
And just like that, they were already moving on to the next Sick Minho Personality.
“I’ll let your professor know you’re sick.” Chan carefully hauled Minho upright by his armpits, steadying him as he swayed on his feet. “It’s okay if you didn’t make the deadline. You aren’t feeling good.”
If Minho wasn’t feeling so horrible and achy and tired and sick, he would’ve tried to fight Chan.
“You really think so?” Minho looked at Chan quizzically, eyes glassy from the fever.
“Mhm.” They carefully maneuvered Minho into the bed, Chan rearranging the comforter on top of the younger man. “Will it make you feel better if I do it right now?”
“Yeah, please.”
“Okay. What’s your password?”
Minho told him, though he was fading fast, his limbs feeling heavy, his body tired. When Chan got logged onto the computer, he found that the page had been left on a “Assignment Submitted” pop-up.
“Minho, you already did it.”
When he got no answer, Chan turned around and found Minho sound asleep.
~~~
When Minho woke up again, it thankfully wasn’t on the floor and rather in his own bed. Something cool was resting on his forehead, probably a fever patch if he had to guess. When he turned his head to the side to find Chan sleeping on a mattress on the floor, blanket tucked tight around him.
He must have pulled his mattress in here while I was asleep.
Minho had the sudden urge to not be alone. On shaky arms, he pushed himself up and on even shakier legs, he stumbled the short distance to Chan’s bed, flopping onto the mattress alongside his roommate without his usual grace, deciding he didn’t have the energy to move any further and steal blankets from Chan.
Chan mumbled in his sleep at the movement and rolled over to face Minho, brown eyes squinting open briefly before he unwrapped himself from his blanket burrito and threw them over Minho, who graciously took them.
“How are you feeling?” Chan’s voice was rough from sleep, his accent stronger than normal.
“A little better.” Minho scooted closer to Chan and his warmth, the other gladly obliging at the invasion of his personal space, throwing a leg over Minho’s tucked ones. “Throat doesn’t feel as bad. ‘M just tired and achy.”
Chan hummed in acknowledgement, finally scooting all the way over and wrapping Minho in his arms, running a hand through Minho’s hair.
Minho relaxed into the touch, eyes slowly closing as tiredness blanketed over him again.
“Hmmmm, this is nice,” he whispered softly.
The two settled down quietly on the mattress, drifting back off to sleep.