Chapter Text
The first time Jeonghan got sick in college, he thought he’d tough it out alone.
No calls for help. No texts to friends. Just him, a packet of cold medicine, and pride.
Then Seungcheol barged into their shared dorm room with soup, medicine, and the loudest sigh known to mankind.
“You look like death,” Seungcheol said, standing at the doorway with a plastic bag in one hand and a disgusted expression on his face. “And you’re making the room smell like Vicks and poor life choices.”
Jeonghan croaked, “Thanks for the warm welcome.”
“I didn’t want you to die in here and ruin my GPA with grief counseling,” Seungcheol said, tossing the bag onto his bed. “Now drink the soup.”
“I didn’t ask you to take care of me.”
“Obviously. You didn’t ask anyone. You’re stupid like that.”
Jeonghan tried to glare at him, but it came out as more of a watery squint. Seungcheol rolled his eyes and walked over, jabbing a thermometer under Jeonghan’s arm and shaking his head.
“For a guy who thinks he’s so clever, you’re pretty dumb about taking care of yourself.”
Jeonghan’s lips twitched. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Seungcheol snapped too quickly. “But if you die, I’m the one who has to explain to the admin, and frankly, I don’t have the emotional capacity.”
⸻
It became a weird, annual thing after that.
Every February, like clockwork, Jeonghan’s immune system crumbled, and Seungcheol, despite his endless sarcasm and eye-rolls, somehow always showed up—with ginger tea, meds, and a blanket thrown at Jeonghan’s face like a peace offering wrapped in passive aggression.
“You have the constitution of an orphan,” Seungcheol said during Year Two, slapping a cold compress onto Jeonghan’s forehead.
“And you have the bedside manner of a prison warden,” Jeonghan wheezed back.
They bickered more than they talked. But it was a familiar script. One neither of them dared to rewrite.
⸻
Outside of sick days, they were barely friends.
They were… roommates. Occasional banter. Occasional arguments. The kind of dynamic that sparked when their edges rubbed too close but never quite caught fire.
Jeonghan hated how easily Seungcheol got under his skin.
And Seungcheol?
He hated that Jeonghan always looked too calm. Too unbothered. Too pretty for someone who constantly forgot to charge his laptop and left coffee cups on Seungcheol’s side of the desk.
⸻
Then came Year Three.
⸻
Jeonghan’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “You don’t have to do this again.”
Seungcheol, who was spoon-feeding him congee this time, just huffed. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d learn how to take Vitamin C.”
“Your concern is touching,” Jeonghan rasped.
Seungcheol looked down at the bowl, then back up. His voice softened for once. “You really don’t know when to ask for help, do you?”
That caught Jeonghan off guard. “I’m used to handling things myself.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
A beat.
Then Jeonghan mumbled, “You know, if you hated me a little less, this would almost be sweet.”
“I don’t hate you,” Seungcheol said, too quickly.
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow.
“I tolerate you aggressively,” Seungcheol added, standing up to avoid eye contact.
⸻
Image description:
A blurry photo Jeonghan secretly snaps of Seungcheol asleep on the couch with a book on his chest and a cooling pad still in his hand. He doesn’t post it. Just stares at it longer than he means to.
⸻
Text message draft (unsent, by Jeonghan):
“You take care of me better than I deserve. I wish you liked me half as much when I’m not sick.”