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Catching himself up by a hand on the wall when the world tilts off its axis, he winces when his ankle twists the wrong way.
Ding dong.
The doorbell rings again — a cruel reminder that he can't spend his whole life by the wall, cursing his own existence, and has to actually exist outside of this apartment.
With a defeated sigh, he pushes himself off the wall.
Wrong move.
Pain pulses behind his eyes immediately, hot and sharp. He squeezes them shut on instinct.
"Jesus," he mutters.
He hates catching a cold. Hates that it is not extreme enough to justify rotting in bed, but not subtle enough to go about his life normally. His thoughts feel like they're wrapped in soft cotton. All he can focus is on the way his eyes burn and his throat is constricted by the invisible hand of death that hasn't made it's mind and is choosing to continuously torture him. The doorbell feels like it's ringing inside his skull — a constant buzzing behind his eyelids.
Dragging his feet to the door, he feels made of slime. Gathering his limbs only for some other one to fall off. It is tragic how he can survive extreme schedules and fight any situation life throws at him, but loses all his battles against a mere cold like a pitiful cat. Pathetic, really.
He opens the door and there, in the hallway, stands Jisung. A baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a huge mask covering the rest of his face. He's wearing a hoodie two sizes too big — probably Minho's — and there is a pack of ramen in his hand. He is rocking back and forth on his slipper-clad feet — because of course the idiot is wearing slippers in freezing cold — like he just had three cups of americano.
"Hey," he greets. Minho knows he's smiling under the mask even if his eyes don't crinkle.
His idiot isn't even wearing a scarf. "Come in," he says. Before you freeze, he doesn't add — not like he has the energy to. His voice already sounds like he swallowed sand.
He doesn't notice the way Jisung flinches at the rough voice.
Stepping aside to let him in, he rests his head against the cool wood. A few moments to compose himself so he can act normal in front of Jisung. He already hates attention on him as is. Especially when he's sick and can't even brush it off with sharp words and annoyed glares. But with Jisung it only gets worse. His wide, worried eyes make Minho feel bad for getting sick.
He hears Jisung taking off his shoes and cap, shuffling forward into the apartment. The ramen packet hits the table with a small thunk.
Minho finally stands straighter with a huff, closing the door and following him inside. Jisung stands near the couch awkwardly. Which is weird. Because by now, the boy has already made himself at home and is probably clinging to Minho's arm.
"Uh... I came here to exchange this with your spicy ones." He says, lifting the ramen packet like evidence.
"The convenience store is a three minute walk from your apartment." He deadpans.
Jisung clutches the ramen dramatically to his chest. “Yeah, but your spicy ones taste better.”
"You don't even eat spicy."
"I'm evolving."
"Last week you cried over mildly spicy tteokbokki."
"I had allergies."
Minho stares at him for a long moment. Jisung stares back with all the dignity of a wet squirrel caught stealing bread.
Minho gives up with a sigh, walking forward and dropping down on the couch. His body instantly relaxes in the worst way possible — muscles turning heavy, melting into the couch as if to become one with it. Bones liquifying and eyes turning heavy, he curses his immunity with everything he has. When he doesn't feel the couch dip, he blindly pats the space beside him, making weird grumbling noises that he is sure Jisung will translate.
Sure enough, Jisung sits beside him. Though Minho doesn't feel the heat from his body and that is a crime. Peeking one eye open before the other, he blinks at the gap between them in confusion.
Jisung is sitting on the couch with a careful distance that has never existed between them. Like he expects to be told off the next second. Something ugly and strangely pouty twists in his chest. He especially hates distance when he's sick — hates feeling untethered and cold and alone inside his own apartment. Usually Jisung fixes that without even trying.
Today he's sitting like they're acquaintances.
Minho doesn't push, though. Maybe Jisung just needs space.
Silence stretches between them for a few minutes, only broken by Minho's coughing and the slow hum of the heater, before Jisung speaks up again.
"Are you mad at me?"
Minho sits up straight after a second too long, blinking a good thirty six times. "Huh?"
Jisung is fiddling with his fingers in his lap, lips being chewed on rather violently. "About the joke I made yesterday."
That is when Minho sees the cloud of anxiety hanging over his head. The way his shoulders are hunched and he isn't quite meeting Minho's eyes.
Minho's eyes soften. He reaches out, tugging Jisung by his sleeve until he is pressed into his side, hand resting on Minho's heartbeat instead of picking the skin around his nails. Tugging his bottom lip free from the continuous torture by his thumb, he hopes his attempt at a smile is comforting enough. "What makes you think that, Han-ah?"
Jisung tucks his head into his neck to avoid eye contact, fingers twisting around the neckline of Minho's hoodie.
"It's just-" he pauses. Minho can see the gears in his head turning, looking for the right words that won't get him embarrassed for his feelings. As if Minho would ever judge him for being human. "I- You skipped dance practice and gym and didn't reply to my messages and I thought- I thought you didn't want to see or talk to me and I know how much you hate being embarrassed and-"
"Jisung." His voice is quiet, the word scratching against his throat. But Jisung stops anyway.
"I was not ignoring you. I was suffering from a cold." He says, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Jisung's wrist. "I have been unconscious for, like, sixteen hours."
Jisung's eyes widen in shock at the realization that someone can sleep longer than him, before he frowns again. "But I called you yesterday aright after the shoot and you didn't pick up. You did look mad at the joke too."
Minho sighs softly, bringing his hand up to place gentle kisses along his knuckles — a soothing gesture to allow Jisung's thoughts to settle so he can actually hear Minho out. He lifts his head up again, his eyes finding their match in doe ones.
"I wasn't mad. I was feeling off yesterday too. I got home early and passed out right after the shower. My phone was already dead when I got in the car." He explains, pointing his chin in the direction of the loveseat opposite to them.
Jisung's eyes follow the direction. There, between a hoodie and what seems to be a leebit with eyelashes, is Minho's phone, face-down on the seat.
"Oh."
"Yeah. I was dying. Not plotting to break up with you over a joke I don't even remember." He chuckles — at least tries to. Instead, ends up coughing like a dying man, leaning his head back on the couch, eyes shut tightly, when it starts hurting again from the sudden movement.
Minho hears Jisung gasp and knows he just noticed how close-to-death Minho actually looks. A cool hand presses against his forehead and he almost moans from the contact. Too bad for him, the hand falls away almost instantly. Jisung winces — Minho thinks it's a little dramatic — and then two hands are cupping his cheeks.
"You're burning up!" he says, like he isn't holding both of said burning cheeks.
"Thank you. I know I'm hot."
"LEE MINHO."
Minho winces from the noise.
Jisung gets off the couch, shuffling to the kitchen in fluffy socks. Several cabinets slam before his head peeks out. "Where's the thermometer?"
Minho points somewhere behind him and Jisung furrows his eyebrows.
"It's in the bathroom. Last drawer to the left."
Jisung nods firmly, curls bobbing from the movement. Then he's disappearing out of Minho's sight before appearing right in front of him. Slinging his legs over Minho's thighs, he casually situates himself on his lap. He uncaps the thermometer and opens his mouth. Brain microwaved, it takes him longer than it should've to realize he is signaling Minho to open his mouth.
Jisung's arms rest on Minho's shoulders as they wait, hands absentmindedly scratching at the hair on the back of his neck. Minho feels like melting in his arms.
Jisung gasps when he takes the thermometer out and looks at it. "Minho, it's literally thirty nine point four!"
Minho groans from the migraine splitting his skull, head falling forward onto Jisung's shoulder. The hoodie smells like fabric softener and vanilla. Safe. Warm. Perfect for dying dramatically in.
"I see the light," Minho mutters weakly against his neck. "Tell Dori I loved him the most."
"You are not dying," Jisung says immediately, scandalized. Then quieter, horrified all over again, "Why are you this hot?"
Minho hums. "Genetics."
Jisung smacks the back of his head lightly. "I'm being serious!"
"So am I."
"You have a fever high enough to cook an egg!"
"Convenient. I was getting hungry."
Jisung pulls back just enough to stare at him with narrowed eyes. "When was the last time you ate?"
Shit. Minho opens one eye. Closes it again when he sees the expression on his face.
"Lee Minho."
"It's somewhere in the past."
"That is not a time."
Minho thinks very hard. The effort alone feels like an Olympic sport. Yesterday is blurry — camera lights, dance practice, Jisung laughing too loudly during the shoot, his own bones starting to ache halfway through the afternoon. He remembers showering. Falling face first into bed. Then darkness.
"...Yesterday?" he offers.
Jisung looks seconds away from biting him. "Yesterday when?"
Minho frowns into his shoulder. "Why are there follow-up questions?"
"Because human beings are supposed to eat more than once every geological era!"
Minho squints up at the ceiling like the answer might be written there. "I... had coffee."
Jisung goes completely still. "Coffee is not food."
"There was milk in it."
"MINHO."
He winces dramatically, curling closer instead of away. "Stop yelling at the sick."
"The sick idiot hasn't eaten in, like, sixteen hours!"
"Eighteen, maybe."
"Minho." Jisung's voice is soft. Warm. Not the fever kind. The quiet kind that spreads all through his chest and leaves him helpless and unable to say no to the boy in his lap.
Minho doesn't like how weak he is to it.
"Okay," Jisung says, tone final. He slides off Minho's lap carefully, wraps the blanket placed on the edge of the couch around Minho's shoulders and places a soft kiss on his forehead — because apparently that is medically necessary too.
"I'm making you soup," he announces as he pulls away. "And feeding you medicine before we talk about your unhealthy habits."
As reluctant he is to let go of the warmth Jisung provides, Minho still has enough dignity left in his plagued body to not act like a koala. That's Jisung's job.
He watches with half-lidded eyes as Jisung shuffles back into the kitchen, muttering something about attractive idiots and unattractive habits. Minho already misses the firm weight against his side and Jisung's warmth.
He hates this version of himself — all soft edges and needy instincts. Usually he's composed even when affectionate, quiet about wanting things. But sickness strips him down into something clingier. Needier. Every ounce of discomfort in his body screaming for the one person that makes him feel safe.
It's humiliating.
So instead, he tells himself he'll be fine. He is a grown man. A responsible one. He can survive not clinging to his boyfriend like a wet shelter cat. Still, barely five minutes pass after Jisung disappears into the kitchen and Minho finds himself staring at the entrance like a Victorian wife waiting for her husband to return from war.
War might just be the best way to explain where Jisung is busy. The noises from the kitchen resemble that of a battleground, every few seconds a cabinet slams and something metallic clinks to the floor. His fever makes everything floaty around the edges, thoughts slipping away before they can fully form. He can vaguely hear Jisung muttering to himself — a stream of complaints and concern and "Why do you have three different soup pots but only two spoons?" that slowly melts into background noise.
But the apartment isn't cold anymore. It feels like home.
That is the dangerous thing about Jisung.
Minho has spent most of his life teaching himself how to endure things quietly. Exhaustion. Pain. Loneliness. The kind of days where your body feels like it is collapsing inward but you still drag yourself through schedules and obligations because nobody else is going to do it for you.
But Jisung walks into his apartment wearing ridiculous slippers and suddenly Minho wants to be taken care of. Wants soft hands in his hair and someone telling him to rest.
He doesn't notice when he starts to drift, only that between one yawn and the next, his vision starts turning blurry and his ability to make out words turns worse than it has been the last few hours.
"Hey."
He is brought back to reality by a warm voice and a hand stroking through his head, nails applying gentle pressure on his scalp. He makes a sleepy, questioning noise in the back of his throat, eyes adjusting again. Jisung sits on the table in front of him, hand in Minho's hair. He's smiling his soft smile — the one that doesn't turn his mouth into a heart or make his eyes crinkle, but makes the corners of his mouth soft, eyelids lowered — and Minho plops his head back again, too tired.
"Hey, sleeping beauty," Jisung says. Minho wants to bite his hand. He would if Jisung didn't follow the offensive remark with a slow drag of his nails behind Minho's ear. "Sit up for me a little."
Minho tries sitting up with a noise that clearly indicates he's holding Jisung up to it no matter how good the kitten scratches are, only for his head to turn heavy and he almost falls back.
Jisung is there in an instant, stupidly muscled arms holding him steady by the waist. "Easy there."
Giving up on being a responsible grown man, Minho leans into him shamelessly this time. Dignity is temporary. Warm boyfriend is forever.
Jisung snorts quietly like he can read the exact thought process happening inside Minho's tiny fever-ridden brain. Setting him back against the cushions, he makes sure Minho is comfortable before sitting back again. Taking the bowl of soup in his hands, he blows at the first bite and holds it up to Minho's mouth.
Minho blinks once. Then again for good measure.
"What?" He rasps.
"What what? I'm feeding you."
"I can feed myself fine."
"You're literally one sneeze away from passing out."
Minho tries to fight back, but every word is dragged up from his throat and his head is throbbing and he can't sit properly without swaying every few seconds. So he sniffles miserably. Scrunching his nose once, he knows his glare is anything but intimidating considering how his cheeks are warm and eyes glossy.
Jisung, that golden retriever of a traitor, has the audacity to coo, poking at his nose with an eye-crinkling smile.
Once Minho is better, that—
"I hate you," he grumbles, sniffing again.
Jisung giggles — a soft, breathy sound that has Minho melting. Not that he'd ever admit it.
"You love me actually," he sings, blowing on a spoonful of soup before holding it up again. "Now open your mouth before I airplane-spoon you."
Minho glares.
Jisung raises the spoon higher threateningly.
Minho opens his mouth with all the resentment of a cat being forced into a bath.
Jisung keeps brushing his fingers against his wrist absentmindedly between spoonfuls, like reassuring himself Minho's there. Every few minutes he asks things like, "Still dizzy?" or "Head hurting?" with this tiny annoying crease between his eyebrows.
Minho answers every question with increasingly incoherent grumbles.
After the soup is finished and medicine swallowed, Jisung walks off with the tray. He returns almost instantly after, drying his hands with a paper towel.
"Come on," he says once he's standing in front of Minho again. Helping Minho up, he wraps Minho's arm around his own shoulder, one hand going to Minho's waist as Minho stumbles lightly.
"Careful," he mutters.
"I can walk on my own," Minho mutters weakly anyway, because dignity may be dying, but it is not fully dead yet.
"Mhm." Jisung hums in the universal language of sure you can. "And I'm the President of South Korea."
The walk to the bedroom is embarrassingly difficult for someone who calls himself a professional dancer. He keeps drifting sideways like his body forgot how straight lines work. Jisung holds him up like Minho isn't an inconvenience. Every few steps, his thumb rubs across Minho's waist absentmindedly.
By the time they reach the bed, Minho is breathing harder than he should be.
Jisung notices that too. Obviously. His mouth twists slightly before he helps Minho sit down carefully on the edge of the mattress. The room spins slower here, softened by warm lighting and familiar sheets. Minho slumps immediately, shoulders sagging.
"There we go," Jisung says quietly, crouching down in front of him.
Minho blinks blearily at the sight. Jisung sitting between his knees in fluffy socks and an oversized hoodie feels strangely domestic. Dangerous, even.
Jisung reaches for his feet and he frowns. "What are you doing?"
The younger man barely offers a shrug carefully peeling the socks off his feet. His hands are warm. Minho hates how immediately comforting it feels.
Then he stills, eyebrows pulling together. "Min." Something in his tone makes Minho crack one eye open properly. Jisung is staring at his ankle.
"...What?" he croaks.
"It's swollen."
Ah. Right. The twisted ankle from earlier. Minho forgot about it somewhere between the fever and the dramatic near-starvation accusations.
"It's fine," he says automatically.
Jisung slowly lifts his gaze. The expression on his face says he is approximately two seconds away from smacking him in the head. "You limped to the door on a sprained ankle while running a fever?"
Okay, ouch. "When you say it like that, it sounds bad."
"Because it is bad!"
Minho pouts instinctively at the scolding. Jisung notices immediately and deflates with a sigh. "You're impossible," he mutters, voice far too affectionate for someone allegedly annoyed. He shifts closer, one hand settling carefully around Minho's ankle. His touch is cautious now, fingertips feather-light against swollen skin. Minho hisses quietly when Jisung presses near the side.
Jisung freezes. "Sorry!"
"It's okay," Minho mumbles quickly, blinking away the sharp sting behind his eyes. Fever always makes him weirdly sensitive. "Just hurts."
Jisung's entire face softens at that. "Oh, baby."
The words hit Minho directly in the sternum. Usually he'd combust before allowing something like that. Normally he'd throw a pillow at Jisung for sounding so soft. But sick and exhausted and aching all over, he just watches silently as Jisung begins rubbing slow circles around his ankle with both thumbs. Careful. Patient. Gentle enough not to hurt.
Minho's head tips back slightly with a tired exhale.
"There?" Jisung asks quietly.
"Mhm."
The massage continues in silence for a while. Only the heater humming softly and Jisung's thumbs working warmth into his skin. It feels unfair how good it is. Minho's body slowly loosens under the touch, tension leaking out of him piece by piece. His eyes drift shut without permission. Every drag of Jisung's hands grounds him deeper into the mattress. Safe. Warm. Taken care of.
Jisung adjusts the blanket around Minho’s legs after finishing with his ankle, tucking it carefully around him like Minho might unravel if left unattended. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Jisung moves around the room — grabbing tissues, plugging Minho's dead phone into the charger, placing water and medicine on the nightstand like he's lived here forever. He technically has.
The realization settles over Minho slowly through the fever haze.
Jisung technically has his own apartment. Yet somehow there are spare hoodies draped over Minho's chair, his toothbrush next to Minho's in the bathroom, three different flavored protein bars shoved into the kitchen drawer because "emergency snacks are important, Min," and now the boy is moving around his bedroom with sleepy confidence like he belongs here. Like he belongs to Minho.
The thought makes something warm ache beneath his ribs.
Jisung finishes fluffing the pillows before turning back toward him. The oversized hoodie sleeves swallow half his hands as he reaches out, brushing damp hair away from Minho's forehead. "Still with me?" he asks softly.
Minho hums. Barely.
After studying him for a second too long, lips pressing together in that worried way Minho secretly hates because it means he's causing it, the younger man finally climbs onto the bed beside him after turning off the main light, leaving only the soft lamp glowing. The mattress dips gently beneath his weight as he slides under the blanket, back against the headboard, and immediately opens his arms.
"C'mere."
What is a responsible grown man? Never heard of it.
Dignity out the window, he melts sideways until his head lands in Jisung's lap with a quiet sigh, eyes slipping shut the moment fingers comb through his hair again. There it is. Home. Jisung scratches gently at his scalp, nails dragging in slow patterns that make every muscle in his body unclench one by one. His other hand rests absentmindedly on Minho's shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth through the blanket.
"Better?" he asks, voice soft — considerate of the headache splitting his skull.
Minho hums weakly in response.
The silence after that is soft. Comfortable. Filled only with the quiet hum of the heater and Jisung's heartbeat beneath Minho's ear. His fingers keep moving through Minho's hair rhythmically, untangling strands gently.
"You scared me, you know," he murmurs after a while, words so quiet Minho almost misses them.
He blinks slowly against Jisung's — his — hoodie. "What?"
Minho feels the movement under his cheek when Jisung swallows.
"I really thought you were upset with me." His laugh is small and embarrassed. "I kept replaying yesterday over and over trying to figure out if I crossed a line."
Minho's chest twists painfully. Not physically this time.
Jisung keeps talking softly into the dim room, voice quieter than usual. Honest in that sleepy way people only get late at night. "You weren't answering your texts. Or calls. And you skipped practice." His fingers tighten slightly in Minho's hair before relaxing again. "You always answer me."
Minho closes his eyes. The guilt settles heavy in his fevered chest now. Not because Jisung got worried — Jisung always worries. That's just who he is. His heart is too soft for his own good. But because Minho knows that kind of fear. Knows what it's like to sit alone with your thoughts convincing yourself someone you love is pulling away.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. His voice sounds rough and small in the dark.
Jisung's arms tighten around him instantly. "Don't apologize for getting sick, dummy."
"Didn't want to worry you."
"You think I didn't worry anyway?" Jisung murmurs, fingers combing slowly through his hair again. "Only, it was for an entirely different reason."
His hand slips from Minho's hair down to the back of his neck, thumb rubbing slowly beneath his ear. Minho nearly melts straight through the mattress. Fever makes everything feel too honest. Too close to the surface.
"You know," he mutters eventually, echoing Jisung's words from earlier, "you could've just used your key."
Jisung stills slightly.
Minho cracks one eye open. The younger man is looking down at him carefully now, expression unreadable in the warm glow of the lamp.
"I didn’t know if you wanted space," he admits after a second.
Something inside Minho aches. Because that’s the thing about Jisung. For someone so clingy, so affectionate, so constantly draped over Minho like a particularly emotional scarf — he is painfully careful with boundaries. Especially when he thinks he’s done something wrong. Minho doesn't like that he made him doubt.
"You live here half the week," he says quietly.
Jisung's lips part slightly.
"There are seventeen hoodies in my apartment that belong to you," Minho continues sleepily. "My kitchen has banana milk now. My bathroom looks like a skincare store exploded. Dori cries outside the guest room when you leave."
A startled laugh escapes Jisung before he can stop it. "Dori does not cry."
"He throws himself at the door dramatically."
Jisung's smile turns soft around the edges again.
Minho blinks slowly up at him. Fever makes his limbs heavy, thoughts syrup-thick, but one thing feels painfully clear through all of it. "You don’t have to ask permission to care about me," he murmurs.
Minho feels the subtle hitch in Jisung's breathing before fingers suddenly slide under his jaw, tilting his face upward gently. Jisung's eyes are shiny in the dim light — not fully crying, just emotional in that embarrassing way he gets when Minho says something accidentally sincere.
"You really choose the worst moments to be sweet," he whispers.
Minho hums. "High fever. No filters."
Jisung studies him for another second before leaning down carefully, pressing a slow kiss to his forehead. Minho scrunches his nose on instinct.
"Gross," he mutters, though there is no real bite to it. He watches as Jisung blinks down at him before his eyes widen.
"Oh my god," he gasps dramatically. "I'M DYING TOO!"
They both stare at each other for a few seconds — Jisung's eyes wide with horror, Minho's half-lidded from the fever-warmth and Jisung-warmth — before bursting in giggles. Jisung's eyes crinkle as he laughs, the sound spreading warm through Minho's chest.
Minho gently holds onto Jisung's sleeve. His laughter fades into a soft breath as he watches Minho's eyelids grow heavier again, the giggles still lingering at the corners of his mouth like they forgot to leave. His fingers slow in Minho's hair without fully stopping, as if even pausing completely might disturb something fragile. Minho shifts once, nose brushing lightly against the fabric of Jisung's hoodie. His breathing evens out in small, uneven waves — still fevered, but no longer fighting it.
Jisung adjusts slightly, careful not to jostle him, sliding down just enough so Minho is fully supported against him. His palm comes to rest lightly over Minho's upper arm, grounding, steady. Like an anchor pretending it isn't one.
He reaches over slowly, turning off the bedside lamp. The room falls into a dim, warm darkness — lit only by the faint glow from the hallway and the quiet rhythm of two breaths slowly syncing without either of them noticing.
Jisung keeps his hand in Minho's hair, now moving in slower, smaller strokes. Comfort more than motion.
"Next time," he murmurs, this time more to the room than to Minho, voice already slipping into sleep, "text me when you're dying, okay?"
Minho doesn't respond. But his fingers twitch slightly where they rest against Jisung's sleeve.
And somewhere between one blink and the next, a sleepy realization settles quietly in his chest.
For someone who loses every battle against common cold, Minho thinks winning Jisung might be the unfair compensation.
‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🩶⊹‧₊˚