Chapter Text
If someone asked him what his favorite part about his power was, Minho would say, without a fraction of a doubt, that he never got cold. He always ran hot—like, the-surface-of the-sun hot. He had his own built-in padded jacket for when it snowed. And the warm, tingling sensation he got after he used his power always made him feel safe, like a hug from a loved one. (Not that he was particularly touchy-feely, but there was no other way to explain it, really.)
Chan used to think Minho would spontaneously combust if he used his powers for too long. He always chided him if he went “overboard,” claiming Minho was going to overheat. Minho would just laugh. Pyromancers didn’t overheat. That was like saying Felix would drown if he used his powers too often.
Unlike most of the others, Minho’s power manifested itself even when he wasn’t actively using it. There was no on-and-off switch, no trigger, just an internal heater that he could adjust whenever he felt like it. But he never got cold—never.
So, when Jeongin and Hyunjin had asked him to train with them that frigid, wintry morning, Minho didn’t have an excuse to say no.
“Too slow,” Jeongin taunted, his voice echoing from across the courtyard. Snowflakes drifted down onto his flickering form, getting caught in the wispy strands of his hair and sticking to the synthetic material of his training uniform. He had broken a light sweat, but looked almost as dry as he did hours ago.
Hyunjin, however, was drenched from head-to-toe. He panted as he bent over and tried to catch his breath from chasing Jeongin around fruitlessly. His hair was plastered onto his forehead. Each time he brushed his hand through it, he had to wipe it on his pant leg.
Despite the intense exercise, Minho noticed the way the two boys would shiver when they slowed down. It was the beginning of January—a numbing month all around—but one that never phased Minho. He sat completely still and serene on the sidelines of the training court as heat emitted from his core and steam rose faintly from his arms into the air.
“Hyunjin-ah,” Minho called, “you’re running in circles.”
“I know that!” Hyunjin gritted out. He wiped his hand over his forehead again and straightened, narrowing his eyes at Jeongin. “I just need to be a little faster.”
“No, you need to be a little smarter,” Minho retorted.
Hyunjin’s gaze wavered. His eyes shifted from Jeongin to Minho, just for a second.
But in that moment of distraction, Jeongin pounced. He flickered to Hyunjin’s right and threw a kick. Hyunjin reacted deftly; he blocked the attack and used his momentum to spin Jeongin around so that he was exposed. Hyunjin’s opening to strike.
A training knife appeared in his hand as though procured out of thin air. He twirled the dull blade towards Jeongin’s jugular, but when Jeongin’s hands came up to block it, Hyunjin switched tactics. Instead of attacking him, he reached out an arm to snake around his eyes and held him to his chest.
Minhio smiled. Hyunjin had caught on.
Jeongin, shocked, staggered. He twisted and tried to pry at the arm covering his eyes, but a dull pressure had already pressed itself against his throat. Hyunjin’s smug voice filled his ears.
“Too slow,” he taunted.
“Time!” Minho yelled, clicking his stopwatch.
The fight left Jeongin’s body, and he lifted his hands in defeat. Hyunjin quickly dropped the training knife from his throat and moved to give the younger man some space.
“Whatever,” Jeongin huffed.
“I don’t know why you didn’t fight back.” Hyunjin shook his hair as they walked over to Minho. Droplets of sweat rained down on the pavement.
“I wasn’t expecting it.”
“That’s why you lost,” Minho said, standing up. He gave Jeongin a knowing look. “In a fight, you must expect everything. You have to observe. Think on your feet. Even if you think you know your opponent, you really don’t.” He lectured. His sharp gaze turned to Hyunjin. “Hyunjin-ah was being too impatient with you. That’s why you almost got the upper hand. But—”
“But I underestimated him,” Jeongin finished. A sigh left his lips, His hand went to drag through his hair. “I know.”
Hyunjin leaned down to grab his gloves under the bench and slipped them on. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Innie. You did pretty good for the first half.”
Jeonin didn’t seem convinced.
“You were handicapped,” he argued.
“I had a knife.”
“Everyone knows how to use a knife.”
“Well, excuse me,” Hyunjin scoffed. “I didn’t know you were the Weapons Master.”
Jeongin rolled his eyes. His expression quickly morphed from exasperation to something more serious, pressing his lips together and clenching his hands at his sides. “In a real fight, I would be dead,” he whispered to no one in particular.
Hyunjin deflated a little.
“Well, good thing this was practice,” Minho said, after an awkward pause. He shook his head and began to walk towards the huge, brick building looming behind them. “C’mon. Let’s go inside before the two of you freeze to death.” He frowned. “Or before Chan shows up to scold us.”
Hyunjin and Jeongin quickly caught up to him. They thanked him for his help—though Minho didn’t really do anything—and hit the showers before the training wing closed at eight. (The company always closed it way too early, in Chan’s opinion.)
Minho stood in the wing’s empty atrium for a moment longer, replying to a few texts he had missed while away. Dark, long shadows stretched across the floor, but that never scared him. He liked the silence and stillness after a long, cold day.
Achoo.
At first, Minho didn’t think anything of the sneeze. His nose was a bit ticklish, nothing to be worried about. But when he felt his nose start to run all of a sudden, he pulled away from his phone in quiet confusion. He didn't get runny noses. He didn’t really sneeze, either, unless his allergies were acting up—but his allergies were seasonal.
“Hyung?”
The voice startled Minho more than he would have liked to admit. When he turned around, Hyunjin was staring at him with a furrowed brow. His gloved hand hung in the air between them, as if he was about to tap Minho on the shoulder, but thought better of it.
“Hyunjin-ah, you snuck up on me.”
“Uh, sorry,” Hyunjin murmured, still giving him that strange look, and dropped his hand, “I left my water bottle back on the court. Are... Are you alright?”
“Me? I’m fine.” Minho scratched his nose. “Why?”
“You were just—” He pressed his lips together, cutting himself off, and shook his head. “Actually, Nevermind. I’ll see you later, hyung.”
Minho watched as Hyunjin left. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shrugged, caulking up the encounter to Hyunjin being weird, which he was. Minho just had a runny nose. He sneezed. No big deal.
Without another thought on the matter, Minho put away his phone and headed towards the dark, icy outdoors.
---
The Cutie Dorm, as it was affectionately named, was almost always quiet. The younger ones usually had lots of energy, but when it was time to wind down for the day, Minho had a strict policy on rambunctiousness. No video games after eleven, no midnight snacks, and most certainly no roughhousing whatsoever. Homework had to be done before bed (Jeongin), and meals were always eaten together. If someone was sick, it meant an early bedtime. They were tough rules, but they kept the dorm in order.
Now, that didn’t mean that the kids kept them.
“Jeongin, Seungmin, get off the floor,” Minho scolded, shooting the boys a look that said don’t you dare disobey me. The boys wrestling on the floor immediately pulled apart and scrambled to their feet, coming to greet the man at the doorway.
“Hyung, you’re home early,” Jeongin said, a little too breathlessly.
Minho looked up from taking off his shoes. He narrowed his eyes. Was the sweat in Jeongin’s forehead from horsing around or was he hiding something?
“I was feeling a bit dizzy, so I decided to call it a day.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“It is?” Minho asked.
Seungmin quickly deflected.
“Hyung, Yongbokkie made some treats while you were away. Want to try one?”
Minho pursed his lips, turning his suspicious gaze from one maknae to the other. “What is it?”
“Brownies!” a low voice called from the kitchen, having overheard the conversation.
“Sounds delicious,” Minho let out a small sigh, “Save me one, please.”
Seungmin’s blank, I’m-definitely-trying-to-hide-something expression morphed into subtle concern. He stopped toeing the ground in favor of giving Minho a wary look of his own. “Hyung, are you okay? You look a little pale.”
Minho looked far from “a little” pale. His complexion had taken on a color two shades lighter than his normal tan, and it made the recesses of his face—his eyes, his cheekbones—dark. There was a small sheen of sweat covering his forehead, too, which he long to wash away with a quick, cool shower. (Hey, even pyromancers sweat!) But, overall, Seungmin was on to something—Minho did not feel at all okay.
But it wasn’t like he was going to tell them that.
“I said I was dizzy,” Minho snapped. He immediately regretted it, though, when Seungmin’s lips turned downwards.
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay, ‘Minnie.” He shook his head, setting his bag down on the mudroom bench. He avoided their eyes as he brushed past. “I think I’ll just lie down for a while.”
“Rest up, hyung,” he thought he heard Jeongin say, before shutting his bedroom door a little too loudly.
---
Minho wasn’t a big fan of meet-and-greets, but the company hosted them frequently enough that he had learned to tolerate them. They were all the same in his mind, anyway. The screaming fans, the show-pony tricks he was expected to perform, the boasting the company did on his behalf. Chan would say a few words and then they’d interact with the crowd. Sometimes, a donation box would sit at the front. Tomato, potato.
And yet, with all the meet-and-greets Minho’s ever had the misfortune of attending, this one bothers him on a whole other level.
He looked ten times worse today than he had the day before. (His stylist was not bashful about telling him so that morning when they were getting ready.) When he looked in the mirror, even he couldn’t deny that his state had worsened. Whatever his state was. (Definitely not sick.) His pale complexion had turned almost sickly. Not to mention, everything hurt. His head hurt, his back hurt, his knees hurt, and yet, here he was.
“Thank you, Chan, for those encouraging words,” the MC smiled, nodding to the superhero who had just finished giving his required spiel, something about good and evil and the importance of upholding the law, and was waving to a fan in the front row. Minho saw her literally swoon and couldn’t help but roll his eyes. (Gently, of course. He didn’t hate his fans. Just the crazy ones.)
“Next, we’ll be moving onto the mini-game segment, where you, the audience, have the opportunity to pick which games the boys play in exchange for a domination towards the Robell Garden Foundation,” the MC continued. He pulled a card from the table in front of him and held it up for the crowd to see. “Each donation will be written down and put into a random raffle. Please refer to the information sheet you were given upon arrival for donation amounts and mini-game selections.”
Minho had long tuned out his voice, content to stare into the vast, grey sky. It hadn't snowed for a while, but frost still stuck to windows and ice still covered the ground. The boys had all opted to wear their winter suits for today, except for Minho. He sported his light, thin perennial.
His discomfort would have been manageable if it weren’t for the fact that he regretted not bringing a coat. He never needed one. He was a pyromancer. Still, for whatever reason, the morning air seemed to seep into his skin and suck away at his warmth. He wasn’t cold, but it felt like he was slowly getting there.
“Lee Know-ssi, would you care to draw the first paper?”
Minho blinked at the plastic bowl that had appeared in front of him, and then glanced up at the beaming MC holding it. He paused for a moment, remembered where he was, and then stuck his hand into the bowl. He pulled a pink slip of paper and unraveled it before the MC had a chance to snatch it away.
“Jegichagi,” he said aloud. “With powers.”
The fans cheered.
Quickly, the MC explained the rules and handed Minho a colorful jegi to start. He threw it up into the air and hit it with his foot skillfully, rocketing it to Jeongin, who teleported and then kicked it to Seungmin, who then passed it to Hyunjin, who then passed it to Changbin, who then passed—
The game went on for several minutes. Each time a member was close to losing the jegi, the crowd would gasp or cry in alarm. But each time, the members would use clever ways to keep the jegi afloat, whether with their powers or with their athletic abilities, passing it along to the person next to them.
Minho was starting to grow bored. And cold. Wait, scratch that. Minho didn’t get cold. (He was only shuddering because someone in the back kept staring at him like they either wanted to wring his neck or get down on one knee.) His limbs ached, most likely from exertion. It felt like every time a fan or a member yelled, the pounding in his head grew worse.
Also, why did his nose itch?
“Hyung!” Felix shouted, and suddenly the jegi was flying straight towards him.
Minho could have easily hit it. It was just that nasty, wet sneeze, shooting out of his soul like it had been buried for ages, that caught him off guard. So, instead of kicking the jegi with his foot, his hand instinctively shot out to catch it, and the sparkly mylar exploded into a tiny million flames on impact.
The crowd screamed.
“Lee Know, that isn’t how you play!” Changbin shouted, wagging his finger. (To anyone else, it might have looked like Changbin was seriously that immature, but to Minho, he knew that was just his way of getting the audience to calm down. He silently thanked the younger member in his head.)
“Hyung, you’re supposed to kick it,” Jisung whined and stomped his foot. “We were almost at ninety!”
Minho stared at his hand in frustration. He felt dizzy again, the lines of his hand blurring for a moment, but he brushed that off as a result of unexpectedly using his power. He hadn’t had an accident like that in a long time, even one that contained and small. It was just that stupid sneeze...
A staff member rushed onto the stage to clean up the ashes. The MC chuckled nervously as he began to shift into the next mini-game, this time chosen by Seungmin. Pairs of eyes threw Minho anxious looks, as if he would start shooting flames out of his hand again at random.
Minho didn’t feel Chan’s presence behind him until he laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” he whispered, worry etched into his features.
Minho furrowed his brow. “I’m fine. It was just a mistake.”
“I know that. I wasn’t talking about that. I’m talking about the way you're shivering.” He shot Minho a pointed look.
Minho looked down at himself. He was still shivering.
“I’m not shivering,” he lied. “I’m fine. Go away.”
“Minho... I think you’re sick.”
“That’s not a funny joke,” Minho scoffed. His eyes briefly glanced at the crowd, but no one was privy to the private conversation the two of them were having. The fans were much more enraptured with the performance Seungmin was making out of drawing a piece of paper.
“I’m not joking.”
“And I’m not sick.”
Chan stared at him with that subtle, displeased look he gave all of his members whenever they said or did something stupid. But Minho was stubborn and that look had little effect after years of enduring it.
At last, Chan sighed and let his hand drop. “Okay. Just come to me if something's wrong, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He crossed his arms and pretended to listen to Seungmin read off his paper. Chan’s gaze still burned holes into the back of his head, though, until they were regrouped in another mini-game. Minho shook it off just as he had the cold, convincing himself that neither bothered him.
---
Minho, I think you’re sick.
Chan’s words from earlier echoed inside Minho’s head as he stood in the middle of the kitchen. He had come in here to look for an afternoon snack, something to push him through the mountains of work collecting dust on his desk, but the nagging voice just wouldn’t leave him alone. Especially when his nose kept running, and for some reason, he felt warmer than he normally did. Clammier, too. Yuck.
Minho scoffed out loud. Ridiculous. He wasn’t sick. He was a superhero; superheroes didn’t get sick. They were the caregivers, the protectors, the people who helped those who were sick. Besides, Minho couldn’t be sick because he never got sick. Not once in his entire life.
All said, the room was titling.
His hand caught the counter before he hit the floor. Legs trembling beneath him, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to blink away the dark spots that clouded his vision afterwards. His grip was white-knuckled, his chest was heaving. Sweat beaded against his brow.
He sat there for a few minutes to catch his breath. The dizziness waned gradually, but the rapid beat of his heart wouldn’t slow.
When Minho finally stood, his vision swam. Little, tiny pearls of color drifted against the backdrop of his shared apartment. He couldn’t quite describe the feeling, but it was like his soul was disconnecting from his body and floating far away.
And his skin. His skin was on fire. His blood was simmering, but not in the same way it did when he used his powers. Hands slick with perspiration, he brushed them over his arms in an attempt to placate the heat and ground himself. But his hands were met with small bumps, all up and down his skin. And then the weirdest, grossest sensation he had ever felt in his life: a sharp chill engulfing his body, so violent and sudden, cutting straight to his core.
His skin was hot but his insides were cold.
Clearly, something was wrong. It was not just the discomfort or pain. It was that annoying, nagging voice again, reminding him of what he was trying so pointedly to ignore. Too bad Minho was stubborn and, quite frankly, didn’t care. He had shook it off this morning—whatever it was—and he could do it again.
Something soft brushed up against his leg, snapping him from his trance. He looked down and was greeted by Doongie’s furry face. He looked up. The clock on the oven read 4:32 PM. Long beams of sunlight came in through the kitchen window and streamed across the wooden floor. Doongie was meowing.
How long had he been in the kitchen for? He couldn’t remember. All he could think was that the apartment was freezing.
Seungmin had shut off the heater long ago; he got hot in early summer. Who didn’t? It never bothered Minho until now.
He felt like a broken thermostat. A shivering mess. As he peered down at Doongie, he tried to calm the chills that ran through his body.
“You want dinner, hm?” Minho cooed, reaching down to pet the cat. He leaned in to the touch, letting Minho scratch him behind the ears. “Where are your brothers?”
Doongie meowed.
“I see,” Minho replied. His work could collect dust a bit longer.
He left the kitchen with small steps, because even walking made his head pound. He found Dori dozing quietly in the corner of the couch and Soonie stretched out on the floor. He turned as Minho entered and gave him a slow, cute blink. Minho smiled softly at him.
The feeling was ruined when another violent shiver coursed through his body.
“I should take a bath,” he thought aloud. He had enough time before dinner to wash up. Maybe it would help with the chills.
He gave Soonie a small pat on the head as he passed and then quietly closed the bathroom door behind him, all but remembering to feed his cats.
---
The mirror above the sink grew foggy as hot, steaming water filled the tub. Minho let his hand skim the surface of the water. A small smile ghosted his lips; it had been ages since he had drawn himself a proper bath. They had been so caught up with saving the city everyday that he rarely ever got chances like this to just relax.
He turned the facet off and then carefully stripped. He was still shivering, especially when his bare skin met the cold bathroom air, but didn’t mind it as much now. He practically jumped into the tub and sunk into its warm embrace.
Abruptly, he sat up.
It’s not warm enough, he thought, still shivering even under the steaming water. He nudged the knob with his foot and filled the tub with more hot water, uncaring of how dangerously full it was getting. The water reached the top of his shoulders before he stopped the faucet.
A content sigh left his lips as he sunk down. Now this was more like it. This was how he was supposed to feel. Normal. Warm.
Then the shivering picked up again.
Intense, violent shivers racked his body in waves, rippling the water in the tub. He tried to sink further but it just didn’t do anything. His stomach was beginning to turn—nausea worming its way up. No matter how he positioned himself or how long he waited for the shivers to go away, nothing worked. Minho realized that he would have to forgo the bath and try something else.
Quickly, he washed and rinsed and watched the water circle the drain.
He stood. Then, as though being pulled down by a set of weights, he sank. He couldn’t lock his legs, couldn’t stop himself from plummeting, couldn’t blink away the dark spots in his vision. He hit the tub with a dull, wet thud and cried out in pain.
“Hyung?” came a sleepy voice from the hallway.
Minho groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. The world was spinning around him, and his legs felt like jello. How was he supposed to get out of this bathroom?
“Minho-hyung?” the voice asked more hesitantly. Then, with a little desperation, “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Minho said, though it came out more like a grunt. He tried to push himself up by using the sides of the tub. It seemed like an excruciatingly slow process, especially because his hands were slick with sweat and his leg muscles kept spasming, but he managed to get himself over the ledge and haphazardly wrap himself in a fluffy towel.
The only issue was that his vision had erupted in a blinding white light. When he tried to blink it away, his sight tunneled, as if trying to make him focus on one thing.
The sink counter was only a few feet away. He could use it as a crutch, just until he managed to dry himself off.
Minho took a step forward, but he never made it.
His legs cramped up, his vision closed in.
“Help,” he weakly called, reaching out a hand but was met with only empty air. His sight was gone before his eyes had even shut and his body thudded against the cold, hard floor.