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Few things in life are certain. Taxes? Jisung’s parents have helped him with those since he got his first sizable paycheck. Roaches? Awful. Zero out of ten. Jisung in the kitchen? A disaster. There is a reason Minho does all the cooking. But another certainty of life is that it is notoriously uncertain. Fortunately, a career like Jisung’s means he knows a thing or two about rolling with the punches. It helps that Minho makes it easier to bear.
The weather outside is cold, but Jisung is warm and Minho is nestled in his arms when he wakes up. It’s the best way to wake up: face smushed into his boyfriend’s shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall as he sleeps soundly. There’s nothing better that Jisung could ask for. This itself is nothing short of a dream. In their home, in their shared bed—safe and content.
Jisung’s first instinct is to scoot closer. He is greedy like that. Never quite satisfied and always chasing for more. Minho usually runs colder than him, but his soft skin is like a hot water bottle that Jisung can leech energy off of. It’s soothing. Jisung wants to hold his boyfriend’s bare body tighter and slip back into a blissful sleep. To stay like this forever.
His next—and correct—instinct is to bolt upright in confusion. Jisung’s body knows something is wrong before his mind does. Terribly, terribly wrong. Minho is still curled, sleeping beside him. Jisung is awake first. Jisung never wakes up before Minho. Minho has always been an early riser. Most days, he woke up before the sun even rose and went to the gym, on a run, or made himself some breakfast. Instead, here he is—still asleep while Jisung, who is notorious for his love of sleep, is awake. His face is even twitching, clearly disgruntled from the dream he is having.
Jisung reaches over to brush Minho’s bangs out of his eyes, knuckles skimming his forehead. It’s warm. Far warmer than normal. Burning, really.
“Baby?” Jisung murmurs, soft but loud enough to try and rouse his boyfriend. When Minho just shifts, he gently shakes him. “Baby, wake up. You’re burning up.”
Minho whines, recoiling from Jisung’s touch and burrowing deeper into their comforter. Jisung gets closer, back of his hand pressed to Minho’s cheek. Jesus, he’s hot to the touch.
“Minho, you gotta wake up, baby. I think you’re sick.”
Finally, Minho leans into Jisung’s hand and slurs. “‘m not sick. Don’t get sick.” His eyes are still shut, face scrunched up. He looks cute but uncomfortable; the combination leaves Jisung’s heart aching.
A cold draft breezes through the room, making Minho curl back up, and Jisung looks to the window. Shit. He forgot to close it after opening it last night. He’d meant to just help them cool off after two rounds of sex, but instead Jisung got his boyfriend sick. Can a person get sick overnight?
Minho sneezes. He sounds like a kitten and Jisung wants to slap himself. He seriously got Minho sick, and all he can think about is how cute he sounds sneezing.
“Sung?” Minho murmurs. His eyes are open, but bleary. “‘m cold.”
Jisung rubs Minho’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby. Gimme a second.”
He slides out of bed, clumsily pulling his abandoned sweatpants back on, and stumbles over to the window to shut it. While he’s up, Jisung takes the opportunity to grab a clean sleep shirt from the dresser and brings it back to the bed.
“Can you sit up, baby?” Jisung sits beside Minho. Minho, in turn, grumbles. “Come on, baby. Let me get you in something other than just your boxers.”
Minho opens one eye, glaring at him, and Jisung does his best pleading face. With another grumble, Minho sits up. Fortunately, he doesn’t attempt to bite Jisung as the latter slips a shirt over his head and carefully helps him into it. Minho’s skin is pale with a sheen of sweat. He looks nauseous and uncomfortable every time he moves a little. There’s no doubt that Minho is sick, and he sags his weight against Jisung’s.
Jisung rubs his back soothingly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
“Head hurts.” Minho says into his shoulder.
Minho rarely gets sick. In the time Jisung has known the older man, he’s only seen him sick enough times to count on one hand. Jisung gets sick far more often than Minho does and he’s man enough to admit he makes his weak immune system everyone’s problem. On the opposite side of the spectrum, the few occasions Minho’s gotten sick, he tends to try and push through it. It’s only when someone forces him to stay in bed that he does so.
Jisung has seen him exhausted but never so…out of it.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Jisung kisses the side of Minho’s head before helping him lay back down. Minho tries to get comfortable, but his miserable expression doesn’t waver. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is matted with sweat. Jisung keeps his hand soothing Minho’s side while Minho throws an arm over his eyes.
“Try to get some more sleep—I’m gonna see if I can find some medicine, okay?” Minho nods with a little moan of discomfort. “Just shout if you need anything.”
Jisung fumbles his glasses on while shuffling to the bedroom door, setting the lights as dim as possible, and leaving it cracked when he exits to the living room. He immediately pulls out his phone and sits on the couch.
me
emergency
bang chan
what kind of emergency?
changbin (work)
real emergency or a jisung emergency?
me
real emergency
minho is sick
Not a second after sending the text does a video call request come in.
“Minho is sick?” Chan asks from his screen square.
“Seriously? I didn’t know he could get sick.” Changbin says from his.
Jisung puts a finger over his lips. “Shhh. He’s trying to sleep.” He checks over his shoulder to the bedroom. It’s silent, but Jisung thinks he can hear his boyfriend’s steady breathing. With the coast clear, he returns to his phone. “Yeah, I woke up this morning and he’s burning up. What do I do?”
“Do you have medicine? A thermometer? You should probably check his temperature first and then choose a medicine based on that.” Chan provides helpfully.
Jisung sighs, shaking his head. “We don’t have anything. Between the tour and schedules, we haven’t had a chance to stock up a medicine cabinet.”
“Just get some pain and fever relievers from the store. Those should work to lower his temperature until he can decide if he needs the doctor.” Changbin gets close enough to the camera that his entire box is zoomed in on his face. “Why don’t you make him something to eat? It’s not good to be sick on an empty stomach.”
Chan nods. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
Jisung blinks. It is but…one issue. “I don’t know how to cook. Minho does all the cooking.” Jisung’s experience in the kitchen starts and ends with cereal filled with cookies and stolen chicken breast.
Somehow, Chan and Changbin manage to lock eyes from their respective squares.
“Did I fail at raising you?” asks Chan. “What do you mean you can’t cook?”
Jisung flounders. “I’ve never needed to! When we lived together, you always cooked and outside of that, I’d just get delivery!”
Even now he and Minho mainly get take out; their schedules have been so hectic, having food show up at their door is just more convenient.
“Hey, don’t harp on him, Channie. He needs our brotherly guidance.” Jisung nods in agreement with Changbin’s statement. “I can ask my mom to send her dak gomtang recipe. It always makes me feel better when I am sick.”
Chan hums, “That might be a little too challenging for him, Bin. What about egg drop soup? I’m perfecting my recipe. If you boil the stock, pour in the egg, then lower the heat, it comes out perfect.” What is this? Culinary Class Wars?
Jisung waves his hands. “No. Send me the dak gomtang recipe. I wanna make Minho something nice.”
“Jisung,” Chan gives him a flat look that manages to be even more chastising through the phone screen. “Have you ever even deboned a chicken before?”
Jisung shrugs, “How hard can it be?”
Chan stares at him for a moment longer before sighing. “Call if you need help. And please, for the love of god, don’t burn down your house.”
Jisung sucks his teeth but Changbin claps his hands loudly and cheers through the speaker. “Let’s go, Han! Send photos—I’ll have my mom judge your work.”
Jisung hangs up before his best friends can tease him further. He gets washed up as quietly as possible—shaving and dressing in the en suite bathroom while Minho sleeps soundly in the bedroom. He tiptoes around the mattress, squatting down to Minho’s level.
“Minho,” Jisung shakes him gently. The sudden jostling is enough to make Minho open his eyes a little. He’s still sweating and his face pinches with discomfort while trying to look at Jisung. “Hey, baby. I’m going to run to the store to get you some medicine. Your phone is right by you and turned on, so call me if you need anything, okay?”
Minho yawns, but the stretch of his body makes him wince in pain. “Okay.” He murmurs.
Jisung tries to push down any doubts he may be having. Minho’s a grown man—he’ll be fine alone for half an hour. Even if he’s sneezing, and running a fever, and looking so…miserable. Jisung tucks the comforter around Minho’s shoulders, and the older man nuzzles into them. Minho whines a little when Jisung finally backs away. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it; all Minho knows is he’s uncomfortable and wants relief.
Yep, Jisung would be happy living the rest of his life never seeing Minho sick again.
He forces himself to leave the apartment, beanie and hoodie pulled over his head—ready to brave the cold morning. The closest market of any sorts is a few blocks away, but Jisung still needs his phone map to navigate. While using it, he pulls up the link Changbin sent him.
The recipe looks simple enough—just a couple of things thrown into a pot to shimmer. When he gets to the market, Jisung does his best to look like he’s not totally out of his depth. The garlic, ginger, onion, and scallions are easy to find considering they are labeled in the produce area. He hesitates when he goes to get the chicken. The recipe calls for a whole chicken, bones and all. Isn’t that too much? Chicken breast is more nutritious, right? That's why their dietitians and trainers make them consume it like water. Maybe he should get some chicken breast, instead. It’ll help Minho get better.
“Are you lost, dear?” Jisung flinches, turning to look behind him.
There’s an older woman looking up at him with a smile. She’s an ajumma through and through—looking over Jisung and his basket without a care in the world. She picks up one of the onions without asking, examines it for a moment, before promptly putting it back into the stall and replacing it with another.
“That one will have much more flavor.” The ajumma then looks at the chicken. “Are you making dak gomtang, dear?”
Jisung hesitates. How did she know? Does she have superpowers? Can she read his mind? He nods. “Y-yes. I was just trying to decide which brand of chicken breast to get.”
“Chicken breast.” She gasps. She spits the word with such a level of disgust, Jisung thinks he might have insulted her entire bloodline. “Are you making this for someone sick?”
Jisung has a hard time maintaining eye contact with the old woman’s intense stare. “Um, yes. My friend told me it’s good for someone who isn’t feeling well.”
“If you love this person at all, you won’t make them soup with chicken breast.” She shakes her head. “The youth of today, I swear.”
For someone you love . Hearing someone other than their close friends and family refer to Minho as his someone , even if unwittingly, makes Jisung feel warm and tingly.
The ajumma scans the whole chickens before plucking up a plump but smaller chicken. “Use this one. It will cook evenly, and be very flavorful. The vitamins and fat will have your partner feeling better in no time.”
Jisung accepts it with a small bow, placing it in his basket. “Thank you.”
She pats his arm. “Of course, dear. It is very sweet of you to cook. I hope your friend feels better soon.”
Jisung stands there, a bit stunned as the old woman walks off. She called Minho his partner. The fact that she used the term partner at all is surprising. Jisung doesn’t stop thinking about the interaction when he goes to check out and even when he goes to the pharmacy to buy what feels like half of the store, it lingers. The pharmacist tells him the pain and fever relievers are all he needs, but he still buys nasal spray, some heat and cooling pads, and three types of cough syrup just in case.
The walk back to their apartment is a brisk one, and Jisung is strangely pleased with himself when he takes the elevator back up and sees his reflection. He’s holding an overflowing bag of groceries and—if Jisung is being full of himself—he looks like a proper boyfriend. The idea that strangers on the street probably looked at him and just assumed he was just some random boyfriend running errands excites him.
He opens the door to the apartment as quietly as possible and sets his bounty down on the kitchen counter. Jisung is starting to unpack when he notices a heap on the floor. It’s a bundle of familiar green fabric, the throw blanket from the couch, with a bare foot sticking out.
Jisung drops the garlic he’s holding.
“Oh my god, Minho.” He rushes over to the pile, ripping the blanket away. Minho immediately whines, curling up into a tighter ball. Jisung checks him over. “Min, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Minho groans, “Cold. Floor feels good.”
This brat. Jisung lets out a sigh of relief, body sagging over Minho’s. “Jesus, you scared me.” Minho presses close to him—stealing heat from Jisung. Jisung strokes one of his red cheeks. “Are you feeling any better, baby?”
Minho shakes his head. “No. ‘m tired.”
“Come on, let's get you on the couch and I’ll give you some medicine.”
Minho whines as Jisung hoists him onto his feet and leads him over to the sofa. He’s still only dressed in one of Jisung’s shirts and what appears to be a missing pair of his boxers, but Jisung can’t be bothered to tease him for it. Minho ragdolls onto the couch and stares up at Jisung like a lost, sad kitten with his red nose and watery eyes. Jisung tosses the blanket back on him with an exasperated but fond laugh. Minho in turn whines a bunch of nonsense when Jisung gets up to fill a glass of water and retrieve the medication.
“What’s that?” Minho talks like his tongue is too big for his mouth. Jisung sits beside him, handing Minho the glass and popping tablets from their dimple packaging. Despite not getting an answer yet, Minho takes the medicine without a second thought when passed it.
Jisung shows off the packaging. “Pain relief. It should help with your headache, and the other stuff for your fever. But I also got some other things if you want to try them.” He rummages around. “There’s nasal spray, cold patches—I grabbed this herbal tea ‘cause the employee said it could help with constipation and I don’t think you need that but better safe than sorry–”
“Jisung.” Minho gently touches his wrist. “Just this is fine. Thank you.”
“Oh,” Jisung sets the medicine back down. “Okay, yeah. Do you…do you need anything else? I'm going to make you some food to eat, but if you need something first, just tell me.”
Minho stares at him. “You don’t know how to cook, though.”
“Yah,” Jisung scoffs, offended. “Why is everyone saying that? I can cook. Probably. If I try.”
Beside him, Minho laughs softly before yawning again. He pulls the blanket up to his nose and blinks sleepily. “Gonna go back to sleep.” He doesn’t wait for a reply—flopping onto his side and burrowing back into his cocoon.
Jisung nods, eventually returning to the kitchen. He has to rummage around the cabinets to find a pot adequate enough for the soup, trying very hard not to clang too much stuff together and disturb his boyfriend. Minho, to his credit, doesn’t seem bothered. Jisung puts a headphone in, turns on a random video for background noise, and gets to work.
The plastic packaging of the chicken states it is already prepared, which is a weight off Jisung’s shoulder; he doesn’t think he would have it in him to properly debone a chicken. He measures out the amount of water instructed in Changbin’s recipe and dumps it into the pot alongside the chicken. Using Minho’s knives to chop onion feels almost illegal and Jisung peaks into the living room to see if the older man is still awake. He’s not; Minho is wrapped around a cushion and his hands are twitching in his sleep.
With the all clear, Jisung dices up the scallions and attempts to crack the garlic using the flat of the blade the way he’s seen Minho do. The pieces of vegetables are wonky and uneven, but they’ll work just fine. He puts the lid on and cranks the stove heat as high as possible. Strange, but he’s not going to argue. Given its simplicity, the soup just requires him to let it sit for around an hour so Jisung does as told. There are many good moments in life to be spontaneous, but for Jisung, the kitchen is definitely not one of those.
Minho is still asleep when Jisung sits on the floor in front of the couch. He props his phone on the coffee table and rips open a bag of chips, snacking on them as he watches his Youtube documentary. The video is only 10 minutes in when Jisung feels the familiar weight of eyes in him. He looks over his shoulder to see Minho awake, eyes trained in him.
“Why are you awake?” Jisung asks. He presses the back of his hand to Minho’s forehead and it’s still warm, but not as scorching as this morning. “You okay?”
Minho blinks lazily at him, the lower half of his face still hidden. He says something, but Jisung can’t hear him through the blanket.
“What’d you say, Min?”
Minho’s eyes narrow. He’s cute when he’s disgruntled.
“Will you lay with me?” There’s a pun to be made about cuddlebugs and sickness somewhere in that question, but Jisung—in his infinite generosity—chooses to save Minho from a laughing fit.
He sits up. “Oh! Yeah, sure.”
Crawling onto the couch so fast, his headphones get tangled up between him and Minho, Jisung lays down. With his back on the couch, Minho rolls over so he can press his face into Jisung’s neck. In his hold, Minho relaxes.
“Sorry,” Minho says against Jisung’s skin.
Jisung rubs his back. “For what, baby?”
“Getting sick. I probably look gross.”
That makes Jisung snort. “Babe, you are the most beautiful person in existence, and I’ve literally thrown up on you before.” When he was drunk, but it still counted.
Minho hums. “Still. You’ve been taking good care of me.”
Jisung shrugs, jostling Minho slightly. “Wasn’t that much work, hyung. All you’ve been doing is sleeping.”
“Han.” Jisung looks down at Minho, who stares up at him, unamused. “Just take the compliment.”
“Love you too, Min.”
Unsurprisingly, Minho falls asleep again. Surprisingly , so does Jisung. It’s hard not too—the weight of Minho on top of him like a heavy blanket is more soothing than any soup. Minho smells good; sure, he’s a little sweaty but Jisung likes that smell. Minho smells like salt and cherry scented body wash. Soup, unlike his boyfriend, is umami. Tangy.
Burnt.
Burnt?
Jisung jolts awake, thrusting Minho up and awake as well.
“Wha-“ slurs Minho.
“The soup!” Jisung rolls out from under Minho, taking the briefest moment to set him back on the couch, and runs to the kitchen. On the stove, the lid of the big pot is shaking. Jisung stares at it; the thing looks like a time bomb waiting to go off. It looks like something in a movie—taunting him and all his hard work.
Grabbing an oven mitt, Jisung steels his nerves.
“Minho,” He says, loud enough for the older man to hear. “If I die, just know I love you.”
“Jisung, what the fuck are you on about?” Minho shouts back, all nasally and cute. At least if Jisung dies, he’ll go out with an angel’s voice sending him off.
Jisung turns the stove off and slowly inches towards the lid. With a deep breath (and a suppressed scream), he rips the lid off. Miraculously, a whole chicken doesn’t go shooting sky high from the pot. Instead, a mouthwatering aroma floats up with the steam. Still nervous, Jisung peaks into the pot. He can’t help but exclaim in excitement when he bears witness to the fruits of his labor.
“Jisungie?” Minho asks, voice tinged with concern. “Honey?”
Jisung grabs a bowl, “Gimme a sec, love.”
Taking the ladle, Jisung spoons broth and vegetables into the bowl. The chicken practically falls off the bone when he goes to pick a piece. All in all, the bowl of food looks and smells mouth watering and only then does it dawn on Jisung that he hasn’t eaten all day.
As slow and carefully as humanly possible, Jisung carries the bowl into the living room. Minho perks up and his face dawns a confused expression when he spots the bowl.
“What’s this?” He asks as Jisung sets the soup in front of him. Jisung sits down on the floor and Minho joins him, dragging the blanket down and keeping it around his shoulders. The dancer examines the broth.
“Is this,” He spoons up some chicken. “Dak gomtang?” Jisung nods rapidly and Minho’s face looks more alive than it has all day. “Did you make this?”
Jisung nods again, a tad embarrassed. “Yeah. Changbin sent me a recipe.”
“This looks amazing, ‘sung. I thought you’d make porridge. This must’ve been really difficult.”
Jisung shrugs. “No need to flatter me, hyung. And it wasn’t that hard. A nice ajumma at the store helped me out and scolded me, so hopefully it’s good.” Minho plays with it more. Feeling bashful, Jisung nudges him. “You gonna try it, Min?”
Minho seems to snap out of it because he scoops up a hefty spoonful and takes a bite. Jisung waits with bated breath; Minho chews, swallows, and blinks. His expression doesn’t shift much but something like confusion flashes through his eyes. Without prompting, Minho takes another bite.
“Is it good?” Jisung asks, nervous. Anxiety starts building in his chest. “Or, uh, fine? Just okay?” Hell, Jisung will take passable .
Minho is quiet after a third bite and Jisung, to his utter horror, watches as his sick boyfriend sniffles and tears start to well up in his eyes. Dear god. Jisung gave Minho a fever and now he’s given him food poisoning. Minho’s going to break up with him. Jisung is going to have to flee the country and change his name.
“It’s that bad.” Jisung’s voice warbles. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Minho. Let me just,” He goes to grab the bowl but Minho backs away, clutching the porcelain to his chest.
“It’s not bad,” Minho says in a shaky, wet voice. “I just can’t taste anything.”
Huh?
“What?” Jisung sounds as confused as he feels.
Minho sniffles again and Jisung doesn’t know the last time he’s seen his boyfriend this openly emotional.
“You made me a nice meal, but I can’t taste anything.” A few tears drip down his cheeks. “My nose is too stuffed.”
Jisung sits up ramrod straight, hands flailing. “Don’t cry!”
He goes to wipe the tears away, but Minho just replaces them with some more. The older man isn’t even sobbing—he’s just staring helplessly into his bowl of soup as he salts it with his tears. Add on the fact that there’s a little snot dripping from his nose, and Jisung makes the decision to take the bowl away entirely.
Minho almost snaps when he pries it from his hands. Sickness cannot hinder Minho’s insane strength—noted. “Hey, that’s mine.”
“I’m not stealing it, Min. I just wanna check if it's fine to eat.” Jisung grabs the spoon and takes a bite. It's good. Really good. The flavor isn’t too overwhelming, but the onions and garlic give it an aroma that creates a perfect balance of savory and freshness. Jisung takes another bite, partially just to check the first wasn’t a fluke. Partially .
“Woah, it’s good!” He looks at Minho, eyes glimmering for approval.
Instead of praise, Minho just stares at him.
“Jisung,” Minho takes the bowl back with a huff. “That’s my bowl.”
Jisung groans, “Hyung, we always share. Even at restaurants!”
“Jisung,” Minho repeats, more firmly. It’d feel more serious if Minho didn’t sound like a Muppet. “I’m sick.”
Jisung blinks. Minho blinks back as over dramatically as possible.
“It’ll be fine.”
He steals another bite.
𓎩
It takes two days for Minho to recover. Jisung helps him shower and fends off offers to help from everyone that asks. Minho calls him possessive, Jisung would argue he’s just doing his god-given duties as Minho’s partner.
On the third day, Minho wakes up feeling more refreshed than he has in weeks. He goes on his jog and stops by a bakery on his way back, picking up some treats to give his boyfriend as a thank you. Jisung is still asleep when he gets home, which is far from abnormal, but the fact that he doesn’t even stir when Minho brings a fresh, warm chocolate croissant into the bedroom is strange.
Minho waves it under his nose, but Jisung just shifts a little.
“Honey,” Minho sings, attempting to rouse him. When Jisung doesn’t react, Minho frowns in concern. He shakes Jisung and the younger man groans. “Jisungie, are you okay?”
“Agh,” Jisung curls up on his side. “Head hurts.”
Minho presses his hand to Jisung’s forehead to confirm what he already knows. It’s burning .
With a sigh, Minho leans down and kisses his boyfriend’s head.
“I’ll go heat up some soup.”